


We All Have Our Demons

by Saturn9



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons Are Assholes, Eating Disorders (Mentioned), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Magic Is a Thing, Minor Violence, Past Abuse, Plot!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn9/pseuds/Saturn9
Summary: Morgan Blankenship is a human attending New England's principal school of magic, the Habersham Institute.  When rumors of a psychopathic warlock surface on campus, he somehow ends up in the midst of it all, with an antisocial jerk who has a vendetta against warlocks.  When Morgan is forced to make his own pact to save their lives, things might start to get a little complicated.





	1. Chimonkeys and Warlocks

**Author's Note:**

> A reimagining of an old idea. Thoughts welcome!

“Tick tock, says the clock." 

Xaphan's voice startles me, and I jam the lockpick straight into my thumb.  

"Fuck," I whisper harshly, clutching my hand and fighting to keep from crying out in pain and frustration. "Do you always have to do that?"  I pull my coat up to my ears and hunch back down, working fruitlessly at the lock. 

Xaphan is a part of my life I would rather live without.  As long as I can remember, he's been here, in my head. I know that the Institute knows something, that no one is telling me the whole story, and that's why I'm picking the lock to the records room at three in the morning while the night shift guard's on his rounds.  

I feel the click of the last tumbler and I suppress a cry of "Eureka!" as the door swings open-- and that’s when I lock eyes with a chimonkey.  

"You have to be  _ kidding _ me."  

I stand there dumbly staring at the chimonkey staring back at me.  It's an ugly little thing (probably an adolescent, not that I'm technically "passing" my creaturology class) with three-inch fangs and patchy fur, and it regards me with doe-wide milky yellow eyes.  Wads of paper are clutched tightly between its claws; books, files, and loose sheets of paper are strewn about the room--  _ my files! _ I think, and in that moment, the chimonkey lets out a short, defiant screech and stuffs a fistful of papers into its mouth.  

I struggle to recall anything useful about chimonkeys, but frankly, I'm lucky I can even identify one.  Absently, I wonder if I've even been going to that class... I do have it this semester, I think... 

"Tick... tock..." Xaphan needles.  

I groan in frustration, throwing my hands about, and mutter, "Fine, we'll get bit by the damn rabid chimonkey; let's do it your way!" 

I shut the door behind me and it locks automatically.  I toe carefully around the chimonkey. It seems perfectly happy to ignore me while it munches determinedly at the paper.  Fine by me, I think. 

So I'm successfully locked inside the records room with a chimonkey.  Everything is going, more or less, according to plan when I realize I'm not even sure what I'm looking for.  I start in an alphabetized area that lacks any Xs; I thumb through spare books on astral communication; and then it dawns on me-- the student files.  Surely, if there's any cause for concern, it's noted in my file. I rifle through everything I can find, but I don't see any student files... until I turn back to the chimonkey.  Scattered nearest his feet, I see folders labelled in block letters by name. 

Nothing is ever as easy as it sounds.  

"Hi, little guy," I croon, tiptoeing back over to the chimonkey.  It possessively cradles his favorite wads of paper to its chest and bares its teeth at me.  "Oh, no, those are all yours," I agree as it narrows a suspicious look my way, "I'm just looking for one pretty piece of paper in all this... uh... 'your things' pile." 

"Eloquent," Xaphan chimes, but I ignore him.  Instead, I peer at all of the documents until I finally see the name "Blankenship, Morgan" printed neatly at the top of one of the pages.  Slowly, I pinch the paper between my fingers, and then I snatch it. 

The chimonkey does not like this, not one bit.  Its mouth opens six inches wide and it lets out a blood-curdling screech that makes my ears ring; spit and bits of paper fly from its mouth.  Maybe one chimonkey isn’t so bad, especially if it’s not even full-grown, I reason with myself; I’m sure those huge fangs and sharp claws are for tearing into squash and not people.

Then there is another screech, but the chimonkey in front of me hasn’t opened his mouth.  My body is frozen in place as I slowly scan the room to see not one chimonkey, but several, crawling out of filing cabinets and boxes, emerging from shadows and towers of paper, each of them slowly stalking toward me with fangs bared menacingly .

Another screech sounds, above me this time; I stare up at the ceiling in true horror as the ceiling tiles creak. 

“Nice monkeys,” I whisper, more for my benefit than theirs.  “Sure are a lot of you guys, huh… Big ol’… happy family…”

The ceiling tiles creak again, and then give way to a large beast of a chimonkey, twice the size of the first one I encountered.  It only takes a moment to look between me and the other chimonkeys, before it turns to me with accusation in its eyes. 

Guess I was right about that little guy not being full-grown.

That’s when the good old-fashioned fear sets in.  I clamber to my feet and start running, only to slam into the locked door.  I jostle the handle helplessly and slam my shoulder into the door, but it doesn't budge.  The chimonkeys are hot on my trail, hissing and screeching from all sides of the room; I can almost feel jaws ripping into my heels. 

"I can be of assistance," Xaphan says, and time grinds to a halt.  

I'm standing in a bare marble room.  It's lit brightly, although I don't see a light source, and I spin around to see what I can only describe as a  _ being _ seated on a carved throne.  The being is androgynous, with long blond hair and a wicked smile, and the look on its face says, "I won the game before you knew we were playing."  The attitude is what gives away the being's identity.

"Xaphan," I breathe.  

"Ah, yes, I nearly forgot-- this is your first time after all-- welcome to my  _ haven _ ." 

" _ Haven _ ," I repeat, confused.  

Still grinning slyly, he holds up a finger.  "Now, I didn't say Simon Says." When I stand there dumbly (my specialty), he continues, "I have something you want." 

"Doubtful," I say, prompting a dirty look, "But I'm listening." 

"Powerful magic," he promises, "For a small price." 

"My soul or my first-born?" I deadpan.  

Xaphan tuts disapprovingly.  "Don't be so dramatic, Morgan.  Your soul isn't worth that much, and you won't have any children."  

"Rude," I chime.  

"As I was saying, I only want one hour.  You won’t even miss it." 

"Huh?" 

"One hour," he repeats, "Sixty minutes.  I'd ask if you finished kindergarten if I hadn't been there." 

"I'm not stupid," I snap at him, although I most definitely am, "I just don't get it.  What do you mean, an hour? An hour off my life-span?" 

"Macabre," he says, rolling his eyes.  "If you haven't figured it out by now, we share a body.  I've been prisoner for seventeen years; all I want is a chance to enjoy it." 

Something in the back of my head says it's a bad idea, but then I remember there’s a barrel full of chimonkeys lining up to rip me into many pieces, and my mind is made up for me.  

"Sixty minutes, to be redeemed at a time of my choosing," he repeats again, "And I'll get us out of this." 

"Deal," I say.  

"I would start running now."  

The real world lurches into existence under my feet.  I press my palm against the door, and it explodes outward in a blast of violet energy, ripping free of its hinges and slamming into the wall on the other side of the corridor.   _ Cool. _  The recoil knocks me into a backwards stumble, then I remember Xaphan's words of warning and begin running.  I'm clutching the paper in one hand and the chimonkeys are behind me, screeching and hissing, as I sprint down the corridor, taking twists and turns at random with reckless abandon.  

Long story short, I have no clue where I'm going, and I get very, very lost very, very quickly. 

I don't stop running until my knees buckle beneath me and nearly send me face-first into the cold floor.  I've broken the chimonkeys’ line of sight, but I still hear them roaming the corridors, screeching for me.  If they find me, I'm royally screwed, because there's no way I can outrun them again. 

Panicking, I toss my head from side to side in search of a hiding place.  I find a supply closet-- perfect. Supply closets always work in the movies, and I'm pretty sure chimonkeys can't get through doors.  It's unlocked, and I fling myself into the darkness, shutting the door behind me. 

It's cramped inside the closet, smells kind of like cinnamon and stale cigarettes, and it’s too dark to see much of anything.  I twist uncomfortably in an attempt to find a convenient place to wedge my elbows that are somehow too big. 

"You're standing on my foot," a voice says. 

I scream, none too quietly.  A hand claps over my mouth and nose while I flail, knocking into brooms and mops and who knows what else.  

"Shhh," the voice hisses, "Aren't you trying to hide in here?" 

He's right, so I attempt to stifle my fear and keep my mouth shut.  Slowly, he removes his hand, and I gasp for air. 

"What are you doing in here?" I demand.  

"Oh, you know," he says, "Supply closets.  So fun." When I don't reply, he says, "Got caught out after curfew, trying to shake my tail." 

"Oh. Yeah same here," I attempt to sound nonchalant.  “Several tails, actually, attached to chimonkeys.”

"At least that explains the screeching."  

"Speaking of which, I don't suppose you're taking creaturology?" 

There's a long pause, and then a disapproving, "Well, it  _ is _ a required course..." 

"See, I knew I had it this semester!  I don't remember anything about chimonkeys," I admit.  

"Or your schedule," he says in the same disapproving tone. 

"Look,  _ buddy _ , I'm not here for your judgment; what I'm getting at here is how do I stop it from chasing me."  

"Well, unlike guards-- you know, what  _ I  _ was hiding from before you barged in--" 

"Seriously, what is your problem?" 

"You!" he hisses.  "I didn't want you here!" 

Frustrated, I heave a sigh.  "Well I'm sorry that the supply closets don't say 'Occupied'!" 

"Yeah, next time I'll just slap a big sign on the door: Get your own damn closet!" 

I can't help but laugh, although I try to stifle it.  My companion doesn't seem to find it as funny as I do, because I feel a shove at my shoulder, which only makes me laugh harder.  

"I haven't heard screeching in a while, so feel free to leave, you know...  _ now _ ." 

I strain my ears, and he must be right, because I don't hear any hissing or screeching; the chimonkeys must be gone.  Quietly, I swing open the door and peer into the corridor; it's empty and silent. I breathe relief and climb over the mess I made.  I turn back to the closet to say goodbye and get my first look at the guy. 

He's pale and thin; dark circles line his hollow blue eyes like bruises.  One of his long sleeves has ridden halfway up his forearm, and I see cuts, bruises, and scars before he notices and pulls it down to his wrist.  

Nothing about him says 'normal,’ which I suppose makes him the kind of person you run into in supply closets.  

"Oh, now you're speechless," he quips while I gape like a fish out of water.  He's enough of an ass about it that I find my goodwill waning, and I turn my attention to trying to find my tongue.  Last I remember, it was in my mouth... 

"I-- uh-- you're..." The phrase that comes to mind is ‘a little bit freaky,’ but he raises an eyebrow and I search for a different one.  "...not what I expected," I finish lamely. 

He rolls his eyes. "Hoping for something a little more impressive?" 

I square my shoulders and shoot back, "I can't say they didn't warn me about skeletons in the closet." 

Of all the crazy things I've said, that's the one that gets a quirk of his lips.  We stand there for a minute, unsure of whether to glower at each other or smile, until he finally says, "If we don't hurry up, the guard's going to come back."  He stuffs his hands and starts off.

"Wait! I didn't catch your name!" 

He doesn't even bother turning back around.  "That's because I didn't share it." 

I think I hate that guy.  

"We're finally in agreement for once," Xaphan mutters.  

***

I make it back to my room, and the anticipation is too much.  My roommate, Darian, is passed out and sawing logs, so I plop on my bed and finally start reading about myself.  

_ Morgan Blankenship, Age 17, Born in Massachusetts, blah blah blah...  _ I skim the boring facts like my personal information and terrible grades and skip to the good stuff.  

_ Poor social skills _ , yep.   _ Inability to pay attention in class _ , also yep.   _ Problems with authority _ \-- basically, something a complete stranger could have written.  I groan, ball the paper up, and toss it off the bed in frustration.  All that hassle for nothing. Absently, I drum my fingers on my stomach and think back to the weird kid I met in the supply closet.  I think I've seen him before, but I had never paid him much attention before. I'm not sure why tonight would be different, except for the whole standing on his foot thing.  It's probably nothing, I tell myself, and I pull the covers on over my clothes. I fall asleep almost instantly. 

***

"Rise and shine, bad boy!"  

An involuntary groan erupts at the morning person and his cheer.  I clench my eyes shut and try to pull the covers over my head, but Darian has apparently already taken them off the bed.  With another groan, I rub the sleep from my eyes and try to push myself into a position that roughly resembles "upright" while my brain boots.  

"Wait, what do you mean 'bad boy'?"  I crinkle my face. "I don't think you should call me that." 

"Whatever you did last night, we have a surprise inspection." 

"Fffffuck," I hiss, fumbling for the paper I balled up the night before.  "In my defense, there was a chimonkey, and they should pin the whole thing on him.  I wasn't going to steal anything; he  _ framed _ me."  

"That excuse might work on me," Darian says, because he's supportive like that, "But you're going to want to brush up on a better lie.  Maybe one that doesn't put you, like, actually at the scene of the crime."

I stick my tongue out at him like a petulant child, but Darian remains unflappable.  I give up on him and roll onto my stomach, sideways on the bed and half-upside down, still looking for the paper ball.  Maybe if I can't find it, the inspector won't be able to, either. I've almost committed to that plan of action (that is to say, no action at all) when my eyes light on the paper ball.  In the same moment, a knock sounds on the door. 

I panic.  In a moment of absolute brilliance, I reach too quickly under the bed and fall onto my own head; but at least now I have the ball in my grasp.  I hear the door swing open and the inspector is coming. Another moment of brilliance strikes me, and I shove the wad into my mouth.

"Blankenship?" 

I look up and lock eyes with Inspector Harding, who has never liked me much at all for no apparent reason besides that he’s a massive tool.  He’s standing above me, and I’m lying on the floor with a ball of paper between my cheeks. I clench my teeth and offer up a grin and a nonchalant wave.  He stares at me for such a long minute that I'm certain he hears my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.

"Room 335, weird as always," he eventually mutters.  He does a cursory walkabout, but there's nothing egregiously out of place, so he simply says, "At least make your beds when there's an inspection.  I can't believe I still have to tell you two this." With that, he's gone. I wait an extra few seconds just to be sure, and then I spit the ball out while Darian erupts into laughter.

“What the hell was that?” he chokes out between wheezes.

I throw the wet ball of paper at him. 

“Dude,  _ gross _ , _ ”  _ is what he says, but he’s already smoothing it back out into a sheet. 

Darian and I have known each other for almost a decade; we’re practically brothers.  It took some work (read: a lot of pissed off roommates, complaints to the principal, and many detentions) and a few years to finally score the “roommates” privilege; this is the third year we’ve roomed together.  All in all, Darian’s the best friend I’ve ever had—not that I’d say that to his face. 

“Well, I hope you stole some other records, or it’s going to be  _ pretty _ obvious,” Darian drawls. 

“I told you, it was the chimonkey.”

“Yeah, about that—how do you even know what a chimonkey is?  You haven’t gone to creaturology all semester.”

It slowly dawns on me.  “Is that our three-o-clock?”  I’ve been skipping that class for  _ months _ .  Naps are important.  “Do you think I can apply for hands-on credit?”

“You sure do want people to know where you were last night, huh,” Darian remarks while I make my way to my feet.  “You could always try-- oh, I don’t know-- attending the classes on your schedule.”

I let out a, “pfft.”  We both know that’s not going to happen. 

There’s a hierarchy already in place at the Habersham.  It doesn’t need to be said aloud o r written in stone; it’s plain for anyone to see.  Someone like me (a “mun”), with no skills, no special magical powers, no innate abilities—I’m going to end up mopping a floor in some well-to-do witch’s study.  Apparently my father went to Habersham, although I never knew him, and my Mom doesn’t talk about him, so I have no idea how or why he enrolled. Even if I were to apply myself, I’m adequate at best; the Institute is filled with fey and witches and druids and all other manner of crazy-magical beings, none of which I could hope to live up to. 

On the other hand, Darian is a saint of a fey—half-fey, technically, which probably makes him even more employable; he comes off as astute instead of intense or untrustworthy, which is how most everyone sees the fair folk.  His father was a normal mortal human, and his mother was fey. He didn’t talk of them much, since they pretty much popped him out and then split, and his mother was being shunned by the fey, and a whole host of other dramatic personal reasons.  But he’s always at my side and supporting my ridiculous schemes, which is really all you can hope for in a friend. 

Point is, he actually stands to be rewarded for his excellence. 

“What’s this?” Darian asks.

“What’s what?”

“Well, if I knew that…”  I lean over his shoulder, and he points at a weird symbol on the top-right corner of the paper that I hadn’t paid much attention before.  It's a simple circle with an x or a cross through it, and it looks like it was stamped. "Some sort of classification?" Darian guesses aloud. 

I shrug, flipping the paper over and giving it another once-over.  Apparently they didn't see fit to have a key on the page. "Not doing me much good," I decide.  

"Unless..." Darian begins, and I resist the urge to stomp my feet when I realize what he’s getting at.

"Unless I go back to the records room," I finish, disgruntled.  The thought of running into the chimonkeys again doesn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm. 

One of the best and worst things about Darian being half-fey is that he can't lie.  So while I usually know when he's keeping a secret or trying to pull one over on me, it also means he's a liability if ever questioned point-blank about the terrible havoc I continue to wreak on property. 

I found that out the hard way, four years ago, when we put jello in all the toilet bowls.  We served two months of detention in addition to being on cleanup duty for a week. Now, I tend to get into trouble by myself, so that Darian can at least say he wasn't involved (technically).  

"So, I see you're dressed," Darian says, "Breakfast?" 

My stomach grumbles.  I did get a bit of a workout last night, so I give it a “hush” pat, fold my biography and shove it into a pocket, and let Darian sling his arm around me.  It’s a little uncomfortable, since he’s like four inches shorter and “can’t fly.”

We step into the hallway.  It’s buzzing with hushed chatter, and Darian and I look around in confusion.  “What’s going on?” he asks someone, but non-fey don’t usually associate with the fair folk, due to that whole can’t-cover-for-you-under-duress thing (which quite frankly is uncreative bullshit, because all they really need is a little training to bend the rules).  I give his shoulder a sympathetic pat when the stranger zeros in on Darian’s bright green eyes and unnaturally sharp features, because then he just shakes his head and shrugs. I’m not much better, since everybody calls me a “mun”—no magic, special powers, etc.

“I’ll figure it out,” I promise him.  Looking around, I spot a witch I know: an artificial redhead with a mean look and a wad of cash tucked into her belt.  “Come on.”

I tug Darian over to her just as she finishes writing someone’s name and taking some bills from him.

“Hey girl,” I begin in a tone that implies we have a long-standing friendship.  Syra—that’s her name, the redhead—rolls her eyes almost on sight. 

“Cut to the chase, mun,” she says, crossing her arms.  She’s always like this, even though we get on well enough.  We’re not necessarily friends, but we do tend to end up covering for each other when the shit hits the fan; Syra and I are essentially the two worst students Habersham has ever had, and probably the very reason that they consider expelling all mortals again every year.

“Rumor mill.  Whatcha got for me?” I ask with a hopeful grin. 

Syra’s scowl widens into a fake smile.  “If you’re asking me… Jayne is having sex with her alchemy tutor and  _ I’m _ taking bets on whose boyfriend or wife finds out first.”

“Not really what I’m—” I get distracted, because isn’t Jayne that pretty blond witch?  And isn’t the alchemy tutor a ninety-year-old werewolf? I shudder while Syra grins at me.  “Okay, if you’re for real, we’re going to talk about that later, because I want in on that. But I was hoping for more general, uh,” I wave my hands at the people milling about, “Chaos.”

“Oh,  _ that, _ ” she says slowly, “Yeah, admin’s in an uproar because someone made a warlock pact or something.  They’re trying to keep it under wraps, but as usual they’re making a big fucking deal about it.”

“How do they even figure that out?”

She shrugs.  “Not an encyclopedia.  Not a warlock. Don’t care.”

“The imprint,” Darian pipes up.  “Magic leaves an imprint and warlocks are, well, pretty distinctive.”

“Warlocks,” I say conversationally, “Huh.” Then I remember blowing a door off its hinges… and unfortunately, I also remember what I did directly  _ before _ that. 

What are the odds of that being a coincidence?


	2. Food Fights and Near-Misses

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Xaphan tells me, and I try not to jump at the sound of his voice.  It should be familiar by now, but it’s always too sudden and too loud in the quiet of my own head.  “One little power exchange doesn’t make a warlock.” 

Sure, I think, it’s probably a different mortal walking around with a crazy, magical entity living in his head.  

Before long, administration starts ushering the lingering students out of the corridors, either into classrooms or the cafeteria.  The three of us (Syra, Darian, and myself) trudge down to the cafeteria, since our first class isn’t until nine-thirty. 

“So,” Darian starts in on Syra, “Did they say where they found the warlock?” 

Syra gives him a look that says she’s not sure when he thought it was cool to talk to her, but that he shouldn’t.  Apparently, he hasn’t established the same rapport with her that I have; she replies shortly, “Don’t think they did, twinkletoes.”  

Darian gives a bit of a shudder.  He can be a little dramatic every now and again, especially when it comes to “dark” magic, or some of the other unseemly things that the Institute is always telling us we should fear.  Normal stuff, you know: demons, warlocks, changelings-- Darian is particularly sensitive about the Unseelie Court. 

I guess I never bought into it too much, since they said the same thing about mortals a century ago.  Sure, we have our bad apples, but so do the immortals. Hello, vampires and ghouls? 

“Blueberry waffles!” Syra pretty much shrieks as soon as her boots hit the cafeteria deck.  She quickly elbows her way into the line and disappears into a chorus of “hey” and “watch out!” Darian and I make the selfless decision to stand in line like the rest of the student body.  

It takes a good fifteen minutes to get through, but in the end, our trays are laden with breakfast: mine with the traditional staples of eggs, sausage, and OJ; and Darian’s with honey milk, saffron cakes, and pear.  We settle down at one of the emptier tables, populated only by a couple of my fellow muns and a werewolf. 

Darian and I settle in to the opposite corner and exchange homework: a couple years ago, we realized we could split the homework and copy each other’s, halving our individual workload.  We work on furiously copying while we gulp down our breakfast, since we got such a late start.

“What is this word supposed to be?  It looks like…” Darian gurgles an example, pointing out one of the scribbles on  my homework. 

“Hey, if you want to romanize the ‘babbling of a brook’ any better, be my guest,” I grumble defensively.  He should probably be the one doing the magical history homework, but then I’d have to actually attend creaturology, so it’s a stalemate.  

The table jerks beneath me, and my pen skids across the paper.  “Come on!” I groan, and I look up to see the werewolf on his feet, hands planted on the table, teeth bared like a dog.  Darian quietly begins packing our things while I dumbly watch the events unfold. 

“It’s always muns like you,” Werewolf Guy is accusing them.  “You just can’t  _ stand _ not being special.” 

“Dude,” my stupid mouth interjects itself, “You’re a  _ werewolf _ .” 

The guy turns on me, at which point my brain finally registers how big this guy actually is.  He clears six feet easily, and he’s at least half as broad in the shoulders as he is tall; his jacket strains to keep his biceps in check.  

In for a penny, in for a pounding, right? 

“You’re a mortal; we should be sticking together.” 

“Coming from the mun who spends all his time with a goddamn fairy?” 

My anger flares.  I’m not easy to anger, but Darian is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met, and I don’t take kindly to people calling him the magic equivalent of a slur.  Orange juice splashes into Werewolf Guy’s face. We both stand there, gaping at each other for a solid minute, before I realize that I’m clutching an empty cup in my right hand.  That’s not a good instinct to have. 

Shortly after I recognize what I’ve done, recognition dawns on the werewolf; his face contorts with rage, somehow managing to look even meaner than before.  His meaty hand slams into his own tray moments before he chucks it at me. Unlike him, I’m expecting it, and I crash toward the floor in an attempt to keep my clothes clean.  

The tray sails over me and collides with the table behind me. There’s a shrill screech in the commotion, followed shortly by the sound of heavy plastic trays slamming into tables and floors.  

It isn’t long before I hear the distinctive voice of a certain witch shout, with no small measure of excitement, “Food fight!”  

Apparently this is the moment everyone’s been waiting for.  Absolute chaos erupts in the cafeteria. I lift my head to see that magic has already broken out freely: one of the garbage cans is on fire; food flies through the air unnaturally.  I gain my bearings and see Werewolf Guy and one of the other muns have started scuffling over the table. I could join in, but I’ve probably done enough damage for one day. Well, that, and I’m no good in a fistfight.  

Instead, I scramble to my feet and grab Darian’s arm, pulling him into a squatting position so that we’re shielded by the table.  We’re still pretty much in the middle of the food fight, though, and every few seconds we’re hit with a collateral spray of something  or other-- and since there are more than just humans in the cafeteria, it’s not all food I would put in my mouth. I have to suppress a gag when a particularly viscous brown sludge hits my shoulder, reeking heavily of something like pickled meat, except with more vinegar and an added layer of decay.  Another time, a stray pea hits me in the eye-- who even eats peas for breakfast? 

“This is your time to shine,” I tell Darian, fed up with being a bystander.  If we’re still in the splash zone, we might as well have some fun

“Until someone drops some salt,” he remarks dryly.  

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I wave him off impatiently.  “If that happens, I’ll help you count. Show me what you’ve got.” 

Darian’s mouth forms the sharp-toothed grin that made us such great friends in the first place. “Alright,” he obliges.  He directs my attention to a stray tray. His fingers twist in the air, and the tray skitters across the floor-- it slides beneath someone’s feet as they step backward, and then Darian pulls it, sending the person sprawling forward into a garbage can.  

“He shoots-- he scores!” I shout, pumping my fist.  

Darian is looking very much at home, as he begins to manipulate anything and everything he can find.  I watch in awe and admiration as his mind pieces together a puzzle I don’t even understand until the last piece falls into place.  

It starts with a simple misdirection of a carton of milk; it’s soaring aimlessly through the air when Darian decides to direct it toward our good friend, Werewolf Guy.  It smacks into the back of his head with enough force that milk shoots up out of the spout and soaks his hair and the back of his neck. Easily enraged, he stalks in the direction the milk came from-- the nearest angle being populated with a small group of fair folk, sylphs, and most significantly a banshee.  

As he nears, I can see wisps of fog gathering around the group: a smarter man might have taken it as a warning to back off, but Werewolf Guy is short-sighted and too pissed to notice.  He grabs a handful of hashbrowns from the floor and hurls it into the group. 

The screaming alone would be enough to make ears bleed.  In fact, it probably did do a bit of that to the muns that were closer to the banshee.  I clutch my hands over my ears as they ring with pain, but it’s like standing under a tornado siren-- the sound reverberates through my skull and teeth and bones.  Even Darian looks uncomfortable, a cringe settling over his face. 

It finally stops. The cafeteria takes on the atmosphere of a muffled demi-world, until the rest of the group joins in the retaliation.  Wings sprout from one of the sylphs’ backs as a minor tornado forms around the table, buffeting it from incoming projectiles. The faces of the fae become dagger-sharp as they launch every single piece of food in their radius into Werewolf Guy’s face.  

Despite the pain in my head and ears, I’m clutching my side and trying not to wheeze from laughter.  Revenge is sweet, but Darian’s not finished. The tornado wall comes down, and Werewolf Guy spins in circles a little bit, dazed.  He fumbles for a weapon, and Darian gives it to him: a mostly untouched tray of buttermilk and mashed-pea soup (ugh,  _ pygmies _ ).  The fae scatter as he lifts it above his head.  

I don’t even see Inspector Harding until Dorian slams a trash can into him.  He stumbles forward just as the pygmy’s tray hits air time. Buttermilk and pea soup splash into the inspector’s face, cascading thickly down his face and the front of his shirt.  The room goes dead quiet; food stops in mid-air. I’ve only seen him shake with rage once or twice before, but it’s clearly visible now; Harding wipes at the mess with his sleeve, grips Werewolf Guy by the lapel and says something I don’t hear.  The various foods hovering in the air fall to the floor with a wet  _ smack _ , and then they’re stalking towards us.     
  
“And you two,” Harding levels his eyes and one angry-shaking finger at us, “I don’t know  _ what _ you two had to do with this, but I’m going to find out.  Come on.” 

I’m arguing before I’m even standing.  “I had nothing to do with it, I didn’t start anything,” I argue, although I most definitely did.  

Wisely, Darian keeps his mouth shut.  

***

We leave the cafeteria behind us and stomp messily through the corridors to the administration office.  McWerewolf is taken straight to the dean’s office, while Darian and I are told to wait our turns. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Darian says.  He’s not looking at me, but I know he means the fact that I stood up for him.  

“Hey, what are friends for?”  I give him a reassuring smile.  

Dreading our conversations with the dean, we sit in pretty much silence from then on.  Werewolf Guy doesn’t take too long; I can hear Harding shouting intermittently, and I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my chest from the memory of his rage settling on McWerewolf.  At least the appropriate parties are getting their comeuppance, I think, even if one of those parties is me. 

When Werewolf Guy emerges, no longer coated in food, he flips me the bird but stalks off without making eye contact.  

Harding points at Darian.  “You next.” Darian shrugs helplessly at me and I give him a thumbs-up of understanding.

I’m drumming my fingers on my knees when another student is escorted in, a blond kid followed by one of the inspectors I’m not familiar with.  He settles in to a seat a little bit away from me and gives me a look of sheer disgust. 

“You reek,” he says.  

I’ve heard that look of disapproval before.  “You!” I accuse. “What are you doing here?” I give him a second look over and notice that he isn’t caked in food matter.  “How are you so clean?” 

“I’m not sure how that’s your business, but if it’s killing you not to know, I got out of the cafeteria  _ before _ you started smearing shit on the walls.” 

“In my defense,” I say, “I only threw one cup of juice.”  

The guy’s eyebrows raise.  “Really? I’m surprised your monkey-brain didn’t kick in.” 

Normally, those kinds of things wouldn’t bother me, but something about this guy’s superior tone gets under my skin.  “Seriously, get off your high horse,” I mutter. 

“You know what a horse is!” he gasps in mock surprise, clutching dramatically at his chest. 

I’m at a loss for words.  Instead, I rake a couple fingers through the mess on  my shoulder and smear it on him. He scrambles to his feet, fighting back a gag, and rips off his overshirt.  

Childish? Yes.  Supremely satisfying? Also yes.  I suppress a grin while he kicks the offensive shirt a good few yards away from us.

“What is your problem?” he spits at me, a fitting parallel to my question last night.  

I shrug and start to say something about how the dean will be reading the laundry list of my problems shortly, and that he’s more than welcome to sit in, but my eyes catch on his arms before I get the words out of my mouth.  

They looked better in the dark.  In the bright fluorescence of the administration office, they’re plain nasty.  Bruises in various shades of yellow and purple dot his arms, all the way up to where they disappear into his undershirt; a few gashes split his pale skin with angry red.  But the scars are what really take the freak cake: a mottled mess of angry-pink and white scar tissue almost seems to lace his skin together. I can’t tell if the scars are from burns, cuts, or magic.  

“Find somewhere else to put your eyes, or I will,” he says.  We’ve thrown around a lot of vitriol already, but his tone now is dangerous.  I manage to tear my eyes away to meet his. 

“Who are you?” I blurt out.  

I don’t get an answer.  The door to the dean’s office swings open and out comes Darian, clean and confused, followed by Harding.  The inspector points at me and crooks his finger wordlessly. I take a deep breath and duck past him into the dean’s office. 

Dean Flamebright is not an imposing man at first glance.  A centuries-old fey, his bright-eyed and energetic demeanor belies a well-tuned intuition and many years of accrued knowledge.  Upon seeing (or more accurately, smelling) me, he scrunches his nose.    
  
“Worse than the last two,” he mutters.  He waves his spindly fingers and a hose of warm air washes over me from head to toe, sweeping away the muck.  “That’s better,” he says, smiling a toothy grin. “Morgan Blankenship, we  _ must _ stop meeting like this.” 

The dean and I have always shared a rapport.  I’m not sure if it’s my close friendship with Darian, my curious and troublesome nature, or the fact that he’s just bananas.  

“Dean Flamebright,” Harding starts, but the dean stops him with a wave. 

“Inspector, you’re still here?” he says, winking at me.  “Don’t you have inspections to finish?” 

Harding gives an exasperated gesture, but he leaves with one last glare in my direction. 

“Dean, the werewolf started--” 

“That’s not why you’re here,” Dean Flamebright puts me at a loss immediately.  His face has taken on a wiser expression, and I can see the beginnings of crow’s feet forming at the corners of his bright green eyes. “Why don’t you take a seat?” 

I linger awkwardly near the chair.  “I’d rather not.” 

He looks at me for a long minute and then says, “I’m certain you’ve heard the rumors by now.  Are you aware there was a warlock at Habersham once before?” 

I shake my head and hope it wasn’t covered in my history class.  “I thought warlock pacts are illegal.” 

“They are,” Dean Flamebright confirms, “And for good reason.  Six students were sacrificed to his master before he was imprisoned.  A not insignificant number of staff died in the assault. It was a very dark time, and not one I wish to revisit.  Of course, it was centuries ago, well before your time,” he adds reassuringly, as if he hadn’t just brought up the possibility of ritual sacrifice returning to campus.

“The seventeenth century was a simpler time,” Xaphan muses.

“Morgan, is there anything you’d like to tell me about last night?” 

My mouth goes dry and the breath is knocked out of my lungs.  He knows, I think. How much could he know? Does he know about Xaphan?  Does he know I’ve been keeping him a secret for seventeen years, from everyone except my own mother?  I clench my fingers in my pockets in an attempt to keep my hands from shaking too noticeably. 

“Anything you saw?” he continues, peering at me over his gold-rimmed glasses.  

Anything I saw?  My lungs refill with oxygen. “Chimonkeys,” I breathe.  “A whole lot of chimonkeys. I made them angry, so I…” I remember running into that boy in the closet.  He was hiding too, but I never questioned what he was doing out and about. “I was hiding. I didn’t see anything.”  

“No?  Are you sure?”  

I nod my head and try not to look as relieved as I feel.  

Flamebright sighs with disappointment.  “Very well, you can’t help what you did or did not see.  You’re free to go. Would you send in Sven Wray after you?” 

The shock keeps me standing there for another thirty seconds before I unglue my shoes from the floor. 

Sven.  My eyes light on him as a thought comes to mind.  If there was a pact made last night, and it wasn’t mine-- that is, if I can trust Xaphan in that one regard… if the dean thought I might have seen something suspicious…  

It would make sense why Sven was so upset to see me, and why he refused to tell me who he was.  

“The dean wants you,” I say.  

Sven brushes past me without acknowledgment, and I find myself standing there working through my thoughts for another few minutes.  

The right thing to do would be to tell Dean Flamebright that I did see someone else out after curfew, but what if Sven is innocent?  Sure, he’s a dick, but maybe ‘warlock’ is a little extreme. I could keep quiet, but what if someone dies? The blood would be on my hands if Sven turned out to be the warlock after all.

“Who cares about a little warlock?” Xaphan says.  “I’m certain all the warlocks in the world couldn’t take down Habersham.” 

He’s right, probably; and if Dean Flamebright, the army of young fey and witches, and the heavily warded walls of the Habersham Institute aren’t enough to defend against a warlock, a mun like me won’t be much help, either. 

Heading to class, I resolve squarely to ignore the problem until it goes away.

***

The resolution does not last long.  Classes are largely uneventful, and I don’t see much of Darian or Syra to get my gossip on.  Although we share most of our coursework, Darian and I don’t actually attend classes together.  Since I don’t have any magical aptitude, or at least none that has manifested, I get more free time while he has to take classes on the ethics of magic use and practical applications and whatever else the fey do when the rest of us aren’t looking.  Meanwhile, I eat dinner, finish my half of the homework, and work idly at my sketchbook while my brief meeting with Flamebright replays in my head. 

_ Six students were sacrificed to his master before he was imprisoned. _

Six students out of the entire Habersham student body?  That isn’t that many, I tell myself. The odds of even knowing any of them would be slim.  It wouldn’t affect me. 

Not unless it was Syra, or Darian, or myself.  Are any of us sacrifice material? I’m not sure what makes a good sacrifice.  I’m no pretty young virgin girl, so I’m probably safe, unless they’re going after muns who spend too much time doodling.  But Syra and Darian have their magic; that has to be worth something. What would I do if something happened to them? What would I say to Darian’s mom? 

_ A not insignificant number of staff died in the assault. _

Okay, that’s a great reason not to go looking for trouble.  I’m no adult witch or centuries-old fey; I’m sure they were much more capable than I was.  Of course, that would have been after the six sacrifices. Should I do something before the warlock gains that kind of power?

_ You can’t help what you did or didn’t see. _

But I did see something, I think.  My pencil snaps in my frustration, and I chuck it at the trashcan.  

“Fine,” I say aloud, to myself.  I pocket my favorite lockpicks and retie my shoes.  “Records room it is.” 

It’s not past curfew yet, so there are still students milling about in the corridors, and I blend right in until I near the administration hall; it’s closed for the night, but I doubt there’s a patrol at this hour.  It wouldn’t do to raise suspicion, though, so I try to appear natural until no one’s looking, and then I duck into the corridor. 

It always looks different after-hours: sallow, lit by only the emergency lights.  Only my racing heart disturbs the silence as I tiptoe to the records room and slide my lockpick into the lock.  I know the positions of the tumblers now, and although it still takes a bit of work, I crack it in about half the time as last night.  

I peer in with caution.  The mess has been cleaned and tidied, and everything appears to be perfectly in place. I give it a thorough look-over; a relieved sigh escapes me when I find no chimonkeys.  Still, this time, I slide a spare folder between the doorframe and the mechanism so that it doesn’t lock behind me. 

I locate the student records and thumb through them.   _ Weatherstone, Whitebark, Willmouth, Wormswood-- Wray.  _ I pull out the file. 

_ Sven Delling Wray, Age 18, Born in Vermont. _ _ Son of manaaja Neela Delling (deceased).   _

I haven’t heard the word  _ manaaja  _ before.  My eyes flick up to the classification stamp in the corner.  His symbol is a circle with three dots arranged in a triangle.  

I glance over his transcript, which puts mine to shame, and the boring details about his height, weight, etc., until I reach the personal notes. 

_ Poor social skills _ (hmm, where have I heard that before)  _ and unwillingness to make friends. Despite this, an excellent student.  There is some concern about his general well-being.  _ I think back to the injuries I saw earlier today.  “Some concern” seems like a bit of an understatement.

The note ends cryptically. 

_ Keep an eye on him _ . 

I shove the document back into place.  Well, if that isn’t suspicious, what is?  I still don’t feel like I know enough, though.  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I thumb through the files again, this time paying attention to the classification symbols.  

Darian’s file and a number of others tell me that the symbol for “fey” is a circle wrapped around a diamond, dotted in the center; it almost reminds me of an eye.  There doesn’t appear to be a distinction between full-blooded fey and half-fey, as far as I can tell. A similar line of deductive reasoning allows me to determine the symbols for witch, werewolf, vampire, sylph, pygmy, and nymph-- but none of the other files seem to be labelled with the stamp on either Sven’s or mine.

“Well, this was a bust,” I mutter, kicking at a box. 

“No,” Xaphan croons, “You learned a new word!” 

I roll my eyes in response.  I haven’t learned anything if I don’t know what it means.  Maybe Darian will know something. I decide he’s the next step after I leave the records room.  

Everything after that happens all at once:  

The door clicks shut behind me; someone shouts, “Hey!”; and then my flight response kicks in.  I peel off in the opposite direction, running at full tilt, in the hopes that whoever’s shouting didn’t get a good look at me. 

“Stop!” they call after me.  I risk a glance over my shoulder to see the patrol giving chase.  

Yeah, there’s no stopping now.  I sprint through the corridors, taking twists and turns at random.  This sure does bring back memories. Honestly, I’m not sure whether the guard or the alpha chimonkey is scarier.  

The memory of last night inspires an idea: I wrench open a closet and dive in, shutting the door behind me.  I feel my way to the back of the closet and hold my breath as I listen for footsteps. I hear the guard running through the corridors for minutes, but he eventually seems to give up.  With bated breath, I stand stock still for almost twenty minutes before I figure it’s safe. 

My hand is wrapped around the doorknob when the door flies open.  Sven’s standing there, out of breath and flushed, but he only pauses for a second-- and then he shoves me back into the closet and closes the door behind him, shutting us in darkness for the second night in a row.  

“Don’t you have anything better to do than hide in supply closets?” I hiss at him.  

He snorts half-heartedly around his gasps for air.  “Don’t we both wish.” 

More footsteps echo through the corridor outside our closet, accompanied by indistinct shouts.  We stand there in mostly silence, aside from Sven’s labored breathing. 

“Your lungs would be in better shape if you didn’t smoke,” I tell him, now that the stench of nicotine reaches me again.  

“Not your business,” he breathes back at me.  “What are you doing here?” 

I make a face that he can’t see and shoot back, “Not your business.” 

He scoffs at me.  Apparently I’m no longer worth words, because he finishes catching his breath and starts feeling for the doorknob.  When he finds it, there’s a moment and a click, and then, “Hm.” 

“Should I like the sound of that ‘hm’?” I ask, already afraid of the answer.  

“No,” he confirms.  He jiggles the knob.  

My entire life flashes before my eyes.  This is it, I think; this is the moment I die-- in a closet with a jackass.  One of these days I’m going to have to start checking for auto-locking doors. 

Sven is less dramatic.  I hear him take a deep breath, mutter a curse, and begin feeling around the closet.  I shuffle awkwardly out of his way as he works a path toward the back, behind where I’d staked my hiding place.  A soft click echoes through the enclosed space, and then a shaft of light permeates it. 

“Come on,” Sven says as if I’m not already on his heels like a starving puppy.  

The closet opens to a corridor of cobblestone which slopes into darkness.  There’s a single lit torch hanging in a bracket on the wall, casting an eerie flicker on all the surfaces its light reaches.  

“I’m not sure this is much better,” I mumble.

Sven shoots me a look over his shoulder.  “You’re more than welcome to wait in the closet.” 

“No thanks; you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”  I jog ahead to lift the torch from the bracket. It’s even heavier than it looks, and it looks like the weight of it would snap Sven’s arm in half. 

“Worth a shot,” he says with a shrug. “Well, lead the way.” 

We descend down the path together.


	3. Acid-Pits and Mutant Bats

The path stretches on for minutes of painful silence.  I walk with my arm outstretched, aching from the burden of the torch, with Sven a pace behind.  For a long while, there’s no visible change in our circumstances, except for the fact that my bicep is burning with exertion.  It’s hot and damp down here, and sweat beads on my brow, only made worse by the heat of the flame. It isn’t long before my shirt is plastered to my back and I’m panting from the humidity.  Even Sven is looking worse than usual, face pale and dewy with sweat, breath caught in his throat.

“It’s the cigarettes,” I tell him, despite the fact I’m having trouble breathing in air that must be fifty percent water.

“Fuck off,” he gasps back at me.   

Eventually we reach a plateau.  The stone flattens out beneath our feet; the walls open up and stretch around us.  Near the center of the circle, the stone floor disappears to reveal a well of bubbling red brine.  The end of our descent bears an empty bracket on the wall that looks like it will hold my torch. The path begins again on the opposite side of the well, leading back up into darkness.  

I glance at Sven.  A two-inch ring of sweat stains the collar of his shirt.  He looks as miserable as I feel, sweaty and exhausted; it doesn’t help that we’re eating well into the evening after a full day of class and food fights.  

I shoulder my torch into the bracket.  I’m not sure either of us are ready to climb uphill.  “Let’s take a break.”

The expression on Sven’s face can really only be described as a snarl.  “I don’t need a _break_ ,” he argues.  

“Bullshit, you’re about to keel over.”   I shove at his shoulder to prove my point.  

Caught off-guard, Sven stumbles a little, but apparently his hatred for me is enough to put fire back in his eyes.  He grips my shirt and shoves me back, hard. Before I realize what’s happening, my heels are hanging off the ledge above the well; he’s stronger than he looks.  I arch my back, wobbling on my feet, as he tilts me over the well. I risk a glance into the well. At a rolling boil, it’s dark and as deep as the eye can see, and it reeks like chemical death.  I quickly look away as vertigo churns my stomach.

“That could have gone better,” Xaphan remarks dryly.  Either it hasn’t occurred to him that he goes down with me, or-- more likely-- he just can’t be fucked to care.

Meanwhile, Sven is practically hissing at me.  “Personal space,” he says.

I swallow and decide to keep saying stupid things.  “By all means, if you want to carry the torch…”

“Everything’s a fucking joke with you!”  

“No,” I say in a tone of compromise, “I have very serious feelings about you holding me over a pit of something that will probably boil the flesh off my bones.”   

“It will.”  

I swallow a lump of cold, hard fear.  If Sven was weird before, now he’s fucking terrifying; there’s something about the tone of his voice that sends chills down my spine.  I work my mouth like a fish, trying to think of something to de-escalate. It’s not something I’m good at; my mouth gets me into trouble more often than not.  Flattery won’t get me anywhere with Sven, since I have been nothing but antagonistic so far. Maybe a distraction? It’s hard to think of one that wouldn’t end up with him simply throwing me into the pit. 

That’s when I see the ceiling moving.  Undulating, really. It’s a sea of darkness above us, interrupted only by tiny flickers of white eyes.  My jaw goes slack as I realize what I’m seeing: a ceiling teeming with hundreds-- thousands, maybe-- of giant, mutant bats.  

“Sven,” I say suddenly, my voice barely a whisper.  I hadn’t noticed the bats before, but they’re starting to stir.  Even my quiet voice causes a ripple effect in the otherwise silent cavern; we must have woken them with our argument.  The sudden change in my demeanor gives Sven pause enough for me to explain. “I don’t want you to panic, seeing as my life is in your hands right now,” I continue as gently as I can, “But we’re seconds away from being literally eaten alive.”  

He’s suspicious, but his grip on my clothes loosens.  Carefully, I bring up one hand to point above us.

“Oh,” Sven says, eyes pointed at the ceiling.  I see at least one bat-ear flick at the sound. With slow, calculated movements, he steps backwards away from the ledge, tugging me with him.  “Why don’t I grab the torch?”

Frozen in place, I watch Sven take measured steps backwards.  He’s doing well, I think, or at least well enough-- until he lifts the torch from its bracket.  

The sea of bats lets out a collective shriek.  Suddenly, they’re swarming us; I dive to the floor, lifting my shirt over my head for protection, as teeth and claws lash at my head and face.  It’s a flurry of wings so thick that I can hardly find my way back to my feet.

“Fuck,” I try not to cry out when a set of claws slashes across my cheek; sharp pain shoots through my face, and I can feel the blood welling up and trickling down.  I keep my face covered as best as I can while I fumble for Sven.

I finally see him, swinging the torch like a madman, as close to the ledge of the acid-well as he is to the edge of insanity.     
  
“Leave him,” Xaphan insists.  

I hesitate for only a second, reasoning, “He has the torch.”  

I duck and weave through the bat-flurry.  I’ve almost reached him when Sven drops the torch onto the floor.  A bat has him by the collar and is doing its very best to drag him into the pit of acid.  Some sort of instinct sends me barrelling toward them. I tackle Sven sideways into the ground, but the bat isn’t dettered; now it’s dragging us both across the floor, Sven swiping and kicking at the bat and me, me clutching onto him for some stupid reason, like the fact his blood will be on my hands if he dies now.

Sven knocks the wind out of me with a knee.  Wheezing, I try a different tactic; I reach up past all his pointy limbs and rip open his overshirt.  (Buttons fly-- one pings me on the nose.) I guess it’s only then that he realizes I’m trying to help; he starts pulling his arms out.  

My support suddenly falls slack.  I grapple at Sven as the bat drags his torso across the ledge.  

I’ve killed someone, is the only thought that crosses my mind for a solid five seconds.  

Then the legs I’m clutching onto for dear life kick at my face, and I register how _heavy_ my arms are.  My heart lurches back to a beat as I open my eyes to see Sven dangling precariously; his only grip on the surface is my arms around his knees.  He finally shakes his overshirt loose, and gravity pulls it into the hungry pit. Horrified, I watch as the acid tears it apart in a solitary moment.  

Okay, I tell myself, I definitely do not want to see it do that to a person.  

“Sven,” I call down loudly so that I’m heard above the rancor of a thousand angry bats.  More claws strike the back of my head, scratching my neck and scalp. The pain grounds me, somehow, in the reality that we are very much fucked unless I pull us out of this.  “Can you trust me for thirty seconds?”

“Do I have a choice?”  

Oh, so _now_ he chooses to develop a sense of humor.  I’ll remember that for later.   
  
“I need you to give me your hand.”

He hesitates.  His eyes are brimming with pure, unbridled terror.  “You’re going to drop me.” I can’t say I blame him; I wouldn’t trust me, either.

“No,” I promise, “If I were going to drop you, I would have done it by now.”   It’s not very reassuring, but it’s all I have. I don’t like the guy; I can barely even stand him.  But if I let go right now, I’d be a murderer, and I doubt I’d ever be able to forgive myself.

Sven struggles.  I feel his legs straining with the effort of pulling himself up, and I hold fast, although my arms are burning like they’re on fire.  We’re lucky he’s so skinny, or he would have pulled us both straight in. As soon as I can reach him, I clasp one hand around his and pull as hard as I can.    
  
I tumble backwards onto the safety of the floor; gasping for breath, Sven and I scramble apart.  He’s stammering out a prayer of gratitude as he gets his legs beneath him, where they belong.

“Start running,” I tell Sven while I grope at the floor, until I wrap my hand around the dimming torch.

Clambering to our feet, Sven and I set forth in an all-out sprint-- or at least as close to one as we can manage, choking on our own breath and still reeling from one or more near-death experiences.

“Fuck,” Sven cries out.  His left leg gives out beneath him, and he goes sprawling on the floor.  There’s no time to think, only to react: I rush to his side, thrust the torch into his hand, and pull his left arm around my neck.  Once again, I find myself thankful that he’s such a beanpole, because despite his height, he’s remarkably easy to keep upright. Braced on my shoulders, he hobbles awkwardly; it’s a struggle for him to walk and hold the torch at the same time.  

We hit the uphill slope that I hope we didn’t just come from, and we don’t look back until our legs nearly give out beneath us.  Sven is silent and tense, jaw clenched the whole way. When his balance fails and he stumbles, I look behind us to see that the bats have given up.  

“Break now?” I croak.  I don’t even wait for him to answer.  I lower him as carefully to the slope as I can, given that my knees are doing their best to buckle under our combined weight.  This time, he doesn’t even argue; he just props the torch against the wall, letting the stone stifle the flame.

I look at Sven for a long moment while I catch my breath.  He’s still pale, more so than I believe is normal, even for him.  I’m not sure what expression he usually wears, but his face is drawn tight.  He must have really done a number on his leg.

“Alright,” I say, “Let me see it.”  I squat in front of him and hold my hands out expectantly.  

Sven stares at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.  When I don’t wilt under his stare, he slowly extends his left leg with a carefully cool expression.  That calm facade only lasts as long as it takes for me to wrap my hands around his ankle, at which point he practically crumples.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” I mutter.  I roll the leg of his pants up, and let out a quiet, “Oh.”

It probably looks worse than it is, since he’s the color of a fresh corpse and all, but his ankle is already a swollen red-purple.  I glance at his other ankle for size comparison; it’s roughly half the size. Yeah, given the bruising and the swelling, it’s definitely broken.

For some reason, Sven looks almost embarrassed.  His cheeks are beginning to flush, and he won’t meet my eyes.  I guess it’s not everyday you get half-carried by your least favorite person.  

“It’s not that bad,” I lie.  It wouldn’t suffer from a bandage, even a makeshift one, but we’re running low on disposable clothing.  With Sven’s overshirt gone, I can see the scars on his arms cast in stark relief by the dim flicker of the torch.  They’re uneven and asymmetrical in parts, organic and gruesome all at once. I’m not really going to suggest that he remove more clothing, even if it might help keep the swelling down.  He’ll just have to pay a visit to the on-call nurse when we get above-ground.

My brain replays the moment he held me above the acid-pit.   _It will_ , he had said, meaning that it would eat through my skin.  At the time, I wasn’t sure why his tone scared me, but now I realize it was because he _knew_.  He knew all along what it would do to me, and he knew what it would feel like.

“You were never going to push me in.”  I don’t mean for the words to come out, but they do, just like always.  Bare in the light of the fire, he looks unnatural and naked. He looks frail, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with more fight in them.  Out of nowhere, I realize how guarded he must be. When all I do is run my mouth and take my chances, it’s no wonder he hates me.

“You don’t know that,” he says stiffly, although he still won’t meet my eyes.  

“I do,” I reply with certainty.  His stare flicks up to me. Usually so cold, his eyes are brightened by a hint of caution.  Since he hates it when I talk, I don’t say anything else, at least not until he looks away, pulling his arms in close to his body.  “What’s a _manaaja_?”

Sven jerks his attention back to me.  “Where did you hear that word? Wait-- don’t answer, it doesn’t matter-- it’s none of your business.”

“He’s right, you know,” Xaphan says, as if I ever take his input to heart.

“Yeah, well, you know what-- you owe me.  I’m cashing in my saved-your-life points.”

“Can’t you ask for homework or test answers like a normal delinquent?” Sven groans.  

“No, I already have those.  Start talking.” I stare at him in anticipation, but he adamantly refuses to meet my eyes.  I can’t help but wonder whether he ever looks anyone in the eye, or if he just hates me that much.

“My mother,” he says after a minute, “She… used to hunt demons and warlocks.”

“Used to?”

“She died.”  He’s very matter-of-fact about it, like it was something he put behind himself a long time ago.  I guess he must have been young when she died.

Sven doesn’t sound like he’s looking for my sympathy or pity, so I don’t say that I’m sorry, and I don’t try to relate.  I can’t really, anyway, since my mom is still alive and well, and I never knew my father. (For all I know, he drank himself to death, but who’s counting?)   Instead, I keep pressing. “And you? You’re not a _manaaja_?”

Although his face is still pointed away from me, I see him war with his expression.  “I’m not…” He falters, searching for the words like they’re hanging in the air in front of him.  Absently, his fingers trace the marred skin of his arm. It sounds like there’s another word on the tip of his tongue when he finally says, “Suited.”

Lanky and awkward, Sven isn’t suited for a lot of things.  He sort of looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over. It’s difficult at first to imagine him taking down a warlock or even a demon-- but then I remember the fire in his eyes and the strength of his grip when he held me over the pit of acid, and I think the world of warlock hunters could do worse.

“You should clean all that shit off your face,” he says.  “I’m tired of looking at it.” There it is-- whatever brief respect I felt for him is drained by his usual cold demeanor.  At least things between us are still passing for normal.

“You should put a shirt back on,” I grumble.  Still, I pull up the hem of my shirt and rub at the scratches on my face.  I’m probably just smearing it, since it’s half-dried now, anyway. The fabric is rough against my raw skin, and it inspires a whole hell of a lot more burning and stinging.   

“Well, maybe I would if someone hadn’t thrown it into a pit of acid.”  

“Oh, it’s _my_ fault now?  You should have held onto it if it mattered so much.”

“Whatever,” Sven mutters.  “You’re the one telling me to put it back on.”  

Yeah, okay, that’s a fair point.  The exhaustion of the day is wearing on me, so I don’t argue.  Somehow I manage to haul myself back to a standing position. The break didn’t do much for my energy levels except let me catch my breath, but I feel like I’m going to go insane if I stay underground with Sven a moment longer.  He doesn’t complain, either, even when he has to take my hand just to get to his feet. He’s clammy and pale all-over, whether naturally or from the broken ankle I’m not sure.

Still, he cooperates the whole way without complaint, even when I suggest leaving the torch behind so that he isn’t completely weighed down.  

***

I’ve heard that hot air rises, but the ascent from the bowels of the school actually feels refreshing.  Sure, my legs are burning, and I’ve got a hundred pounds or so of grumpy teenager slung around my shoulders, but at least I’m breathing in oxygen instead of a sauna-like mist.  As the slope begins to peter out, we’re even graced with a cool breeze that must be flowing in from the corridors above.

“Thank God,” I breathe when we finally reach a door.  We must have climbed far enough that it’s an entrance back to the main body school.  Sven stumbles forward to fiddle with a simple panel beside the door, and after a minute, the door clicks open.  “Where the hell did you pick that up?”

Sven shrugs while I tuck my shoulder under his arm.  “Internet?”

“Yeah,” I grumble, “I’m sure you picked up a secret ancient passcode for the catacombs beneath a school that was built before China knew what rice was…  on the _internet_.”

Sven shoots me a look that I can’t decide is good or bad.  “You need to stop using words like ‘catacombs’ before I forget you’re a complete moron.  Although your history could use some work.” 

“I will drop you like a fucking rock,” I threaten as he pushes the door open.  “Don’t test me.”

“And then who would you harass?”

“I have _friends_ ,” I say, mock-offended.  “They’re very easy to harass.  We don’t even have to schedule meetings in supply closets.”  Conveniently enough, that’s where we find ourselves: another supply closet.

“People willingly spend time with you?  Like, freely, of their own choice?”

“Har har.”  I resist the ever-growing urge to elbow him in the ribs, telling myself that his bones would probably hurt me more than I hurt them.  “What even is the point of that stupid fucking mutant-bat acid-pit?”

“I think that’s the incinerator.”  Sven’s practically hopping on one foot while we feel our way to the front of the supply closet.  I hear a loud-ish bang and a “fuck,” but overall, we do pretty okay as a three-legged contestant.  It helps that our only competitors are mops and buckets, but hey, some days, you have to take what you get.

The door swings open and I’m blessed with the yellow fluorescence of the security lights.  If I wasn’t supporting Sven, I probably would have kissed the floor.

“Alright, flamingo,” I tell my hopping companion, “You have a one-way trip to the nurse.”  

I thought I’d seen Sven panic when he was hanging upside down over a pit of acid.  Once again, he surprises me by being completely fucking nuts.

“Absolutely not,” he says, even going so far as to push me away.  “I am going to my room, I am going to lie down, and I am going to take care of it.”  

Baffled, I sputter at him.  “Like hell you are!”

“You said it wasn’t even that bad,” he accuses me.  

“I’ve said a lot of dumb things-- you shouldn’t trust my medical advice!”

“You’re right,” he agrees, “So I won’t. No doctor.  No nurse. Me, in my room.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I say gaping at him.  

“Okay.  Good night.”

I stand there, staring at him, standing there and staring at me, for almost two full minutes.  

“Good night,” Sven repeats, but I don’t move.  

“How exactly are you planning on getting to your room?”

“I…”  He looks embarrassed again, cheeks flushed and unable to make eye contact.  It’s probably his most bearable look yet.

“Yeah.  Come on.”  As much as I want to take him to someone who could actually help him, I’m also not willing to leave someone with a broken ankle standing in the hallways all night.  I pull him back against me, and he wordlessly slings his arm back around my neck. We’re getting good at this. “Where’s your room?”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure whether or not he should share.  Finally, he says, “Castor. Second floor.”

I stifle a groan.  “Why wouldn’t there be stairs.”

“Look,” he says, offended, “No one asked you to help.”

I roll my eyes and tug him in the direction of the Castor dorms.    
  
It turns out he’s not terribly far away from my own room in the Pollux wing.  They hallways are pretty much adjacent, although I’m on the third floor and farther down the corridor than he is.  We hobble to his room-- 212 Castor, I make a mental note-- and I pause near the door.   
  
“You can make it to your bed?”

Sven rolls his eyes.  “Yes, _Mom_.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” he replies, extracting himself from me.  He does a funny little balancing act where he braces himself on the door and swings it open, and I wait until he disappears into the darkness of his room.  

What a long fucking day.  


	4. Libraries and Agreements

Morning comes too quickly and passes in a sleep-deprived blur. Throughout classes and meals, I can’t help myself from scanning the crowd for Sven. I’m not sure why, but I keep wondering whether he ever went to the nurse for his ankle. It’s probably none of my business, which only makes me more curious. 

I think more about the brief conversation we had about his mother. I don’t understand how he isn’t “suited” for being a manaaja-- my encounters with the non-mun students on campus taught me that you either are or aren’t something. I’ve met witches who couldn’t draw a circle and a forest nymph who once killed a cactus. It’s a matter of birthright, not capability.

“Have you heard of manaaja?” I ask Darian. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, scratching homework answers out of his pen. 

He doesn’t look at me to respond, “Is that a new student or something?” 

“Sort of,” I say. I’m not sure why, but I’m not ready to tell Darian about my run-in with Sven. I’m still trying to wrap my own head around what I think about him; I don’t need Darian chiming in. “No, not really. I… read it somewhere, I guess.” 

“You can read?” Darian jokes. Why does everyone think I’m such an idiot? I’m at least passing my classes. Most of them. “Maybe check the library then, nerd.” 

“Oh my god,” I groan. “What good even are you?” 

“I get us into all the good parties.” 

The fey throw the best parties, so he’s right, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I pull my shoes back on. 

“Are you actually… going to the library? Who are you?” 

I give him my best shit-eating grin. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m probably digging my own grave right now.” 

“Okay… You’re acting weird, but at least I know you’re Morgan.” 

I give him a thumbs-up on my way out. I’m technically pushing it on being out past curfew, but usually no one stops you from going to the library. That is, in my limited experience, since I’ve been there maybe a dozen times in as many years. It holds true again, though, because before long, I’m standing in front of a bookcase as long as my house is wide. 

I’m not sure where to start. I have no doubt there’s a method of organization at work here, but it’s well beyond my comprehension. This one shelf is home to tomes on butterfly gardening, dark magic, and holiday home cooking; unfortunately, as far as I can tell, none of them scream the word manaaja on their spines. 

At a loss, I fill my arms with the first relevant books I can find: The Price of the Pact, a book that seems to outline why you shouldn’t become a warlock and then proceeds to tell you exactly how to do so; Walking with Demons, which may or may not be a steamy romance novel in disguise; and Imprisoned in my Mind: A Cautionary Tale of Possession, which sort of speaks for itself.

“Library is closed, kid.” 

I jerk, nearly toppling the small stack of books in my arms. There’s a woman at the counter that I didn’t notice on my way in. She’s tall and slender, with blond hair that falls to her waist, and she’s regarding me with a cool expression. 

“You can’t put a curfew on learning,” I say with what I hope is a charming smile. 

A smirk ticks at the corner of her lips. “Bring them here.” A pale hand grabs the top book off my stack. “Aah, hoping to be a warlock, are we.” 

“Uh, well, no.” Just, you know, stalking some kid I met. “It’s… theoretical.” 

“I don’t think I can loan these books out in good conscience,” she says, “Given the circumstances.” 

“Oh! You’re the librarian!” 

The woman quirks an eyebrow at me. She’s familiar, somehow, although I distinctly remember an older, grumpier librarian from my previous visits. “Yes, and you are standing in the library. Now hand them over.” 

I sigh, but I’m not sure how to argue my case; I hand over the stack. Our fingers brush, and I crumple to the floor as my vision goes black. 

***

The world is darkness. There’s no sight, no sound, no touch or taste or smell. I’m floating in something that I can’t describe, like I’m lost in the color of a TV. 

A wisp of white drifts by me. I grasp for it, but it dissipates between my fingertips. 

“Morgan Blankenship.” The voice is like a breeze sliding by my ears. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. 

Scenes flash suddenly before my eyes; they’re almost too quick to make out. My mother, the picture she keeps of my father; playing with Darian in my backyard, finding out he wasn’t human; my first day at Habersham; meeting Syra in detention; class and exams and holidays at home; finally, arguing with Sven beneath the school. The flashes fade to black as suddenly as they appeared. 

I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Panic fills my chest as I let out a silent scream into the void. 

***

Bolting upright, I wake with a start and a scream. I’m on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar place, with the strange librarian hovering over me. I grasp at my surroundings; I’m flooded with relief when I realize everything is concrete reality, not some vast nothingness.

“What…” I croak.

“You’re Morgan,” she says, her tone filled with both accusation and trepidation. “Morgan Blankenship.” 

“As far as I know,” I answer cautiously. “Care to explain why you know my name?” 

She exhales slowly. “I’m Rebekka. I’m a seer; when we touched, I may have… accidentally learned your name. And saw a little of your past.”

“So that was you,” I say, “Rooting around my brain.” 

“Not intentionally, but yes,” she admits. “I believe you’ve met my brother, Sven.” 

That’s why she looks so familiar. They share the same shade of blond hair, the same tall and slender stature (although she’s curvier), the same pinched look of disapproval. 

“I know him,” I admit. “I think he hates me.” 

A small smile quirks her mouth, and she seats herself at the couch across from me. “He often doesn’t know what is in his best interests.” 

I don’t care for Sven much, but I’m strongly for free will. I don’t care if the guy wants to drop out to sell crack, if that’s what he wants to do. Fuck “best interests.” 

“Last night,” she continues, “You helped him. What are your intentions?”

My brow furrows with confusion. “I didn’t have any.”

“You could have left him to die. Why risk your life for his?” 

I falter under the pressure. I didn’t even have to think about it at the time. “It was the right thing to do.” 

She regards me with a cool expression for a while longer. “Then thank you. He could use a friend like you.” 

I can’t help but laugh. “We’re not friends. He hates me, remember?” 

“I think that’s an exaggeration.” Rebekka’s emotions are difficult to read, not unlike her brother’s. “He’s… careful, with his associations. He hasn’t let anyone close for a long time. Until you, that is.” 

If my brief acquaintance with Sven is the closest interaction he’s had lately, then that’s pathetic. I can’t help but feel bad for him, even if he does bring it on himself.

“I mean, he did sort of threaten to kill me,” I tell her. 

“Ah, yes. He can be intense.” 

“That’s a fucking understatement.” 

“Look, I’m…” Rebekka struggles with her words. “I’m not his favorite person, either. I know he’s a lot, and I know all he does is push people away, but… What I’m trying to say is, I’m worried for him.” 

“Sven’s a big boy. I’m sure he can handle himself.” 

“I’m afraid he’s going after the warlock.” 

That gives me a pause. Sven had said that wasn’t the life for him. No, not in those exact words, he said… “He told me he wasn’t suited for warlock hunting, whatever that means.” 

Rebekka purses her lips and shakes her head. “You misunderstand. What did my brother tell you?” 

“Not much. Something about a mom who used to hunt warlocks, and that he’s not suited to follow the family legacy, I guess.” 

“Warlock hunters are a pair. Manaaja and nakija; exorcist and seer. But I…” Her eye contact falters, and she finds a place across the wall to focus. “I failed him. He has never forgiven me.”

“And, what, he can’t do it alone?” 

“He doesn’t have his powers.” Rebekka swallows. “We gain our strength from jumalat-- what the Old World called gods; sisters of the Sun and Moon. He is so angry with me that he can’t forgive even Paivatar. Unless he takes her vows, he may as well be a mun. He stands no chance against a warlock.” She sighs and looks back at me. “He won’t be happy that I told you this.” 

“So why are you telling me if it’s some big secret?” 

“Because I saw your secret, too.” 

My breath catches in my throat. Suddenly the world is spinning. I struggle to find the floor with my shoes. What happens now? Are they going to send me to an asylum? Am I going to spend the rest of my life locked up as a crazy person?

Rebekka laughs lightly. “I’m not going to turn you in, you know. You haven’t committed a crime.” 

“Oh,” I say weakly as the feeling returns to my fingertips. “You could’ve maybe led with that.” 

“It’s settled then. You’ll keep an eye on Sven?”

“Whoa, I didn’t say that-- how many times do I need to tell you? We’re not friends. He hates me, and I’m not exactly lining up for his autograph, either.” 

 

Rebekka’s eyes darken. Okay, I’ve seen that look before, too. They are way too fucking alike; it’s creepy. 

“I understand,” she says in a tone that does not imply understanding. “As I’m sure you’ll understand if Dean Flamebright learns your secret.” 

Okay, not cool.

“Let’s go back to what you were saying about not turning me in, and how I haven’t committed a crime.” 

She smiles sweetly, an expression I’m grateful Sven hasn’t graced me with before; it’s like having tea with the Devil. “We both know you’ve kept it a secret for this long. The Dean, and the immortals like him, are afraid of what they don’t understand. That’s why you’re here, in Habersham, where they can keep an eye on you-- because you can’t be explained. But if you keep my brother alive, I’ll keep your secret.” 

A breath of nervous laughter escapes me. This is all way too much to take in all at once. The thoughts race through my head. First, Sven has a sister, which is mind-blowing because up until this point, I was pretty sure he was lab-grown. Second, his sister reads minds. Third, she read my mind and is apparently blackmailing me into being his friend. 

Why do these things always happen to me? 

I swallow my confusion, because I don’t want to find out firsthand what she thinks they’ll do to me. “Well then, I guess I don’t have much of a choice.” 

“No,” she agrees. 

“Fine,” I tell her. “But I don’t think he’s going to make it easy on me.” 

***

Sven does not, in fact, make it easy on me. Another day passes, and while my eyes are peeled, I don’t catch a glimpse of him. When the third morning arrives, I get up early and spend all morning in the dining hall. I still don’t see him. I search every crowded hallway and every classroom I pass. I’m starting to consider checking the supply closets one by one when I remember: 212 Castor.

I knew there was a reason I bothered to notice.

I head there during Creaturology, when Darian is occupied in class. One of these days I’ll have to tell him that we’re a newly formed trio, but I figure I might as well break it to Sven first. Given that all he’s ever been is “difficult,” Sven will probably take a while to come around, anyway. 

I give the door of 212 Castor a solid rap. The usual students are milling about, chatting and studying and playing hacky-sack in the halls. I don’t hear any sort of movement or response behind the door, but I’m running out of places to look, so I knock even harder. 

An arm slings itself around my shoulders so suddenly that I almost fall over. Standing at my side is a familiar redhead.

“Jesus, Syra,” I gasp, “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Whatcha doin’ at Skeletor’s room?” she asks, popping bubblegum in my ear. 

Something tells me I shouldn’t say I’m being blackmailed to keep an eye on him, so I lie. “Group project, he’s trying to stick me with all the work. And now he won’t answer his door!” I shout at the room. He hasn’t been anywhere else; he has to be in there. 

“Well, shit,” Syra says around the new bubble she’s blowing, “B an’ E.” 

I glance around. The hallway isn’t super crowded, since it’s just two lines of dorm rooms, but I didn’t think to pack my lockpick in the morning. 

“I left my delinquent kit in my room,” I say with a frown.

Syra rolls her eyes. “Muns,” she complains, but it’s a light jab. We’ve spent enough time together that she knows I’m not ashamed of it and I know she insults everybody pretty equally. If I had to pick someone to hang with besides Darian, it would be Syra. She nudges me out of the way and puts her hand on the knob. With a mutter, a spark of light, and a jiggle, the door opens. 

“I owe you,” I breathe. 

She winks at me. “I’ll hold you to that. Have fun with your project.” 

I slide into the room and shut the door behind me. 

It’s a single, which is rare for Habersham, especially now that they’ve started enrolling humans. The blinds are shut, but the afternoon sunlight still peeks in, casting long shadows in a mostly bare room. There’s little to no sign that the room is lived in: a backpack, a pile of books and papers on the desk, and a pair of shoes by the door. The only other thing that gives it away is the misshapen lump on the bed. 

“Sven,” I hiss, but the lump doesn’t move. I prod him in the side, but he’s still unresponsive. “Fine,” I say, “Have it your way.” 

I draw the blinds, letting the sunshine into the room. The square of bright light settles on the form beneath the blankets, which finally emits a quiet groan. It’s encouraging, so I pull back the covers. 

Sven has definitely looked better. I didn’t know he could look paler than when he’d broken his ankle, but he does. His eyelids flutter over unfocused eyes. I’m not sure he even realizes I’m here. 

When Rebekka told me I had to keep him alive, I didn’t think she was serious. 

“You could always just leave him,” Xaphan says, and I’m reminded exactly why I’m here. 

I sigh and plop down on Sven’s bed. Guess I’m going to be mothering him now. Might as well-- school’s already weird enough, right? 

I press the back of my hand to his forehead. He’s warm to the touch, but he’s not sweating. 

“Morgan?” Sven asks. His voice is raspy and tired, like he spent the night at a metal concert. “I told you, I can make it on my own.” 

Confused, I shake my head. “What are you…” It dawns on me what he’s talking about. Three days ago, when I left him here, I asked if he could make it to his bed. “You can’t be serious. Don’t tell me you’ve been lying in this bed for two and a half days.” 

My answer is his lack of reply. No wonder I haven’t been able to find him, I think. I pull the covers all the way off him. 

The first thing I think is how skinny he is. He’s only wearing a thin pair of shorts, so this is the first time I’ve really seen him not swallowed in clothes that must be three sizes too big. The bones jut from his hips and shoulders like mountains; between his ribs lie fully formed canyons. 

The next thing I notice is how marred his skin is. His arms are the worst of it, but there are similar scars across the rest of his torso. My eyes drift down to his ankle. It’s swollen and purple, but it does look a little better, even in this harsh lighting. 

Quite honestly, he’s a horror to look at. Hopefully I don’t have nightmares.

“At least you’re not naked,” I mumble to myself. 

Sven groans again. “What are you doing here?” 

“Obviously, you’re incapable of taking care of yourself. You’re lucky I’m here, because you look like you’re starved half to death.” 

Sven blinks a couple times before my words register, and then the jackass I’ve met before surfaces. His eyes sharpen on my face, and then he yanks the covers back over himself and turns away. “Go away,” he mutters. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He’s going to hate me anyway, so I peek my head out the door and find Syra. She’s playing hacky-sack with a couple of witches I’ve seen around campus. “Hey, Syra. Want me to owe you an even bigger favor?” 

She grins and tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Depends. You asking me to get into trouble?” 

“Not exactly.” I lean in so I can whisper. “I need you to get Skeletor something to eat. Preferably something high in calories, and as much of it as you can carry back.” 

Syra rolls her eyes. “Boring,” she groans. “Can’t you ever ask me to do anything fun, like cause a distraction or something?” 

“Sure, next time I need a distraction, you’re the first person I’ll call.” 

She crosses her arms. “Fine, but you better let Twinkletoes know I’ve got dibs.” 

A grateful smile breaks on my face. “You’re a life-saver.” Maybe literally. 

“Yeah yeah, give me ten.” She waves me off. “I’ll be back.” 

That settled, I duck back into Sven’s room. He’s propped himself into something that almost resembles a sitting position. Engulfed by the covers and rubbing sleep from his eyes with a frown, he looks like a petulant child I woke up too early. 

“What are you doing?” he asks shortly and without preamble. “If you think we’re friends, you’re wrong.” 

“I already told you, I’m helping you.” 

He scrunches his nose, kind of like a bunny. If that bunny wanted me dead and was also the rudest person I’d ever met, of course. “I don’t want your help.” 

“Okay,” I say with a smile, seating myself on his bed. “I’ll leave if you can make it to the dining hall.” 

All Sven does is frown at me. We both know I’m right; he’s completely useless right now. 

It isn’t long before Syra returns with a tray, reminding me of our agreement. If I keep making all these deals with people, I’m going to have to start keeping a list. For now, I settle for taking the tray and shutting the door in her face before she can get a good look at Sven. I don’t really want people talking about what he looks like under the long sleeves he always wears. I don’t know why; it just seems inconsiderate.

Sven is complaining before I even set the tray on his bed. “What the hell is that smell?” 

“Food,” I tell him, “Something it looks like you haven’t had in a while.” 

“Fuck off. It’s none of your business.” 

I shrug. “Never stopped me before. So eat up.” 

The food doesn’t make much sense as a meal, but I did tell Syra to go for broke. The tray is piled high with just about anything that isn’t a fruit or a vegetable. Sven frowns at it with a look of distaste before accepting a carton of milk and a PBJ like it’s poison. 

While he eats, I settle down at his desk. I didn’t look very closely earlier, but the books seem to be very similar to the ones I wanted to read at the library. They cover a small array of subtopics, but the overarching themes are demons and warlocks. His notes, taken with a neat and tidy hand, are at a glance the same. 

Apparently Rebekka wasn’t wrong. Sven might not call himself a manaaja, but he’s definitely looking into the warlock.

“You lied to me,” I tell him. 

“I should have lied about where I lived,” he mutters. 

“You told me you weren’t a manaaja--” 

“I’m not.” 

“--but it turns out that you are hunting the warlock.” Another thought occurs to me, and I remember why I even ran into Sven the second time. “Which I guess means you probably aren’t the warlock.” 

Sven recoils with offense-- and, I realize shortly, surprise. “You thought I was the warlock?” 

“I saw you out past curfew, the night they supposedly made the pact. The Dean even asked if I saw anything suspicious. What was I supposed to think?” 

That gives him pause. “Well, if you’re not the warlock,” he starts slowly. I open my mouth to argue-- I’m obviously not!-- but he cuts me off. “What the hell were you doing out that night?” 

“Uh… research?” I can’t exactly tell Sven that I was looking for details on the guy in my head, or that I spent the night after trying to pin the crime on him. “What were you doing?” 

“My job,” he snaps. 

“Well, congratulations,” I announce. “Now you have a partner.” 

He’s quiet for a while. He doesn’t move, like he’s waiting for more. Then he finally says, “You can’t be serious.” 

I’m not sure I am, but Sven is in no condition to be hunting much of anything, and if he gets himself killed, I’m royally fucked. Rebekka renewed the fear of getting caught with a voice in my head, so he’ll have her to thank when it’s all said and done.

“Look,” I explain, and it’s only half a lie, “The Dean said last time there were sacrifices. I just want to find this guy before he starts slicing and dicing.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Sven argues, exasperated. “You don’t even know where to start!” 

“Oh, I’m sure you have years of experience on me,” I reply sarcastically. 

“Just because we’re the same age doesn’t mean we have anything in common. You need to go back to your dorm; you can’t help me.” 

I’m not sure whether he’s talking about hunting the warlock or something else, but I refuse to let his pride get in my way. He’s going to have to get used to having me around, one way or another; I can be just as stubborn as he can, and I don’t have a broken ankle to weigh me down.

I’m reminded of the look on his face when I suggested seeing the nurse, and I realize I have the perfect threat. 

“Either I help you or I get a doctor to do it for me.” 

Sven falters almost immediately. He hesitates, clearly at war with the decision of Morgan vs. Medical. Eventually, I win out as the lesser of two evils. 

“Fine,” he agrees bitterly.

What a great start to what I’m sure will be a beautiful friendship.


	5. Showers and Constructs

It’s half an hour before Sven throws up into his trash can.

I can’t say he loses his lunch, because he didn’t even finish his sandwich or his milk. He empties his stomach contents in the first ten seconds or so, and then it’s just dry-heaving. Sweat-slick and pale white, retching bile into a garbage can, he’s pathetic enough that even I feel bad for him.

The tension in the room is thick, like a blanket of weird and awkward laid over us. Even so, something pulls me to sit at the edge of his bed.

Between heaves, Sven manages, “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” He’s frustrated, but his words lack their usual venom.

“Maybe you’re finally wearing the poor bastard down,” Xaphan says, but I ignore him.

“Why don’t you just shut up and let me help you?”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sven looks at me with narrowed, cautious eyes. “I don’t know what you want from me, Morgan, but--”

“I want you to be okay.”

Xaphan mocks a gag, but the words come out so easily, I’m not even sure I’m lying. I might be here because Rebekka blackmailed me, but I know pain when I see it. It doesn’t matter how much of an asshole he is; whatever’s wrong with him is going to kill him if he doesn’t do something about it.

“You need help,” I tell Sven.

I’m expecting a sneer or a growl, some sort of snark, even something along the lines of, Not from you.

Instead, what I get is a long moment of Sven staring at me like I’m some sort of clockwork puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He finally exhales, long and slow, and looks away with a quiet, “I know.”

Oh. So there is someone behind the claws and fangs. I take the trash can from him and set it next to the bed while he tries to curl up into himself.

“Why do you even care?” he asks weakly. “Don’t you have your own shit to deal with?”

Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do, I think sourly, but I can’t tell him that. The truth is I don’t care, not really-- or at least, not about Sven in particular. I’m doing it for my own benefit. All I can say is, “I guess I didn’t have enough shit to keep me busy, huh.”

It works the smallest chuckle out of Sven, at least.

“So what now?” he says. “You gonna snitch me out to the counselors? Turn me in to the nurse?”

“Would it help?” I already know the answer; the way he reacted at the mention of doctors, he’s had his fair share of visits to medical, and they clearly didn’t work out in his favor. Maybe he’s not even sick, I realize, just… fucked up. There’s no easy way to ask, so I just blurt out, “It’s something you’re doing to yourself, isn’t it. Starving yourself.”

He recoils like I burned him, but he doesn’t deny it. Stuff like this-- mental illness in general-- just always seemed like such a mun problem to have, I never expected to see it at Habersham. Not like this, at least. Sven is actually frightening in how sick he seems. I thought that he didn’t have any friends because he was a dick (and maybe that’s still part of it), but now I’m wondering if it’s because he’s a different kind of scary.

Scary like, how can you watch him suffer if you get attached to him?

There’s a dark flush spreading over the bridge of Sven’s nose, his cheekbones, the tips of his ears. He won’t look my way, either; he’s just clenching the covers tight in his fists.

“Hey.” I touch my hand to his shoulder; he flinches back, even pulls his hands up like I’m going to hit him, so I drop it to rest between us. “Sorry, I’m not-- this isn’t like, a thing I do, you know. Finding fucked up people and trying to help them. I just-- you…” I falter, mouth open, while I search for anything helpful to say. I don’t know anything about Sven except that he’s a warlock hunter, or a wannabe, anyway.

“I don’t… say this a lot, but-- thanks.” His voice is quiet, small, like I’ve never heard him before. I think he’s actually genuinely touched that I cared enough to stop by.

And since I didn’t, it sort of makes me feel like shit.

“Don’t mention it,” I mutter, standing abruptly. “I can, uh, I can bring you meals. You know, until your ankle heals.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Just like that, the moment of weakness is over and Sven is back to normal: his question is accompanied by an eye roll and a half-sneer in my direction.

“No,” I confirm. “I’ll be back for breakfast. That should probably tide you over until then,” I say, gesturing to the heaping tray left at his desk.

He snorts. “It’ll probably tide me over for the rest of the week.”

“Yeah, that’s part of the problem.”

“Fuck off.”

“Gladly. See you in the morning,” I say with a shit-eating grin and a wave, shutting the door behind me.

It should probably irritate me that I’m going to such lengths to help him out and he’s still being so rude, but honestly, I’m just thankful it doesn’t seem that things between us will change any time soon.

***

The days pass. At the end of every mealtime, I go through the line again and get a tray for Sven. (I’m late to all of my classes.)

He eats like a bird, which I think I’m okay with as long as he keeps it down. So instead of quantity, I try to focus on quality. If I can get some calories in him, maybe one day the edge of his ribcage won’t resemble a cliff face.

In my experimentation, I learn that he likes sweet things-- hotcakes for breakfast, dessert at lunch and dinner; although he’ll only ever take a bite or two, he saves it for last like a treat. He doesn’t like bread, or cheese, or eggs; sausage makes him sick. He’ll eat fruit and vegetables with little complaint, even though I’m pretty sure he hates greens. A week later, I’ve got a pretty good grasp on what to bring him.

Darian, however, is growing suspicious of my mysterious disappearances after each and every mealtime. I still haven’t figured out how or what to tell him. He’s not really the threatening type, but how would he react if I told him I was being blackmailed? I can’t even tell him the kind of dirt Rebekka has on me. What if he got medical or the Dean involved?

“Look, if it’s a girl, just tell me. Or a boy; either way!”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, very good of you to be inclusive, but I don’t have a secret girlfriend-- or boyfriend,” I add when he eyes me suspiciously.

“Okay, are you sleeping with teachers for grades?”

“What the fuck kind of double life do you think I lead?” I sputter. I’m going to have to make something up or he’s going to start following me. I’m lucky he hasn’t caught me in the line again, getting another tray. I’m even luckier he hasn’t mentioned it to Syra, because she just might be smart enough to figure it out. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything, because I thought you might make fun of me, but… I’m seeing a tutor.”

Darian doesn’t believe it for a second, which is probably fair. He’s not pissed at me, but he’s definitely offended that I’m keeping secrets. (If only he knew that this wasn’t the first one.) “Fine,” he says, “Don’t tell me if it’s such a big secret. It’s not like we’ve been best friends for ten years or anything.”

I groan. “Come on, don’t do that to me. Look, it’s--” I shut my mouth before the truth spills out. “It’s complicated.”

“How complicated could it be?”

“You’d be surprised,” I mumble. “I’m practically living a soap opera.”

***

Thanks to Darian and his self-made inquisition, the kitchen is almost closed by the time I head back down to the cafeteria. I manage to nab some of the last good items on the line for Sven before I head to his room.

“Knock knock,” I say, swinging the door open.

“You can’t just say you’re knocking when the door’s already open,” he grumbles. I give him a grin; the good days are the ones where he starts complaining before I’ve even given him his food. He takes the tray from me, only to frown down at it.

“Not a fan of Mexican?”

“Too spicy.”

I roll my eyes, because the last word I would use to describe the tacos they serve is “spicy.” Still, I offer, “They’re almost closed, but if you’re not going to eat it, I can--”

“I have something to ask you. A favor, I guess.”

I do not like where this is going, but my stupid mouth says, “Okay. Shoot.”

“I haven’t bathed in, like, a week. I’m starting to smell as bad as you do.”

“Not off to a good start,” I tell him. Since I don’t smoke and all my exercise comes from committing misdemeanors, I’m pretty sure he’s lying about my BO anyway.

“It’s not every day I ask someone to help me get to the fucking shower,” he grits out.

“You have to be kidding me,” Xaphan groans in my head. For once, we’re perfectly in agreement. But every interaction I’ve had with Sven has been weird, so I figure this is pretty much par for the course.

“As long as you can scrub yourself down, I’ll put you under a showerhead,” I agree. “But only because no one’s seen you in a week and if your stench starts seeping outside this room, people are going to think you actually died in here.”

Sven rolls his eyes, although he’s already scooting himself to the edge of the bed.

“But you have to eat first.”

He groans. “Okay, mom.”

“I make your plates and take you to the shower, I pretty much am your mom, you know.”

He pauses mid-action, hand hovering near the tray.

Right, she’s dead. I remember reading it in his file, even if I can't tell him that. Good going, Morgan.

But then it’s over; he just puts the tray on his lap and slowly, quietly eats his tacos. I’m still feeling awkward, so I start rifling through his closet for clothes, a towel, and toiletries. I roll up all the fabric and shove it into the basket because I know my hands are going to be preoccupied carting a teenager down the corridor to the communal showers.

At least he’s been managing to get to his own bathroom, I realize with no small amount of gratitude.

“Are you ready?” I ask when he sets the tray, half-empty, to the side.

“Yeah-- just, is there like, a jacket or something…”

“No one will see you if we walk fast. Come on.” I grab his arm and haul him to his feet. He wobbles, nearly goes limp in my grip, but our combined efforts keep him upright. Although I hadn’t noticed just from looking at him, Sven certainly feels heavier than he did a week and a half ago. He’s still a walking skeleton, but I think we’re making progress.

To my knowledge, he hasn’t even thrown up in almost three days!

Luckily, the showers are only down the hall instead of on a different floor; we make pretty good time with three legs. I’m not surprised to find the communal room empty, since it’s past curfew. The first quarter of the area is sinks and mirrors, and to the back left are stalls for changing or bathroom breaks; to the back right is a section of blue-tiled stanchions ringed in shower-heads; there are maybe thirty showers in all. I help Sven to one of the showerheads near a wall (in case he starts to slip) and give him his assorted toiletries, hang the towel on one of the empty showerheads, and bow at a whim met.

Sven just rolls his eyes and tells me to, “Get out of here already.”

“Yeah, alright, fuck you too buddy,” I grumble, already halfway out of the shower-room.

“What did you expect?” Xaphan asks, and I shrug to the air. It’s not like I expected gratitude, or even would have welcomed it. The truth is, I’m getting pretty used to Sven always being short and rude.

The hiss of the shower fills the acoustic room. While Sven bathes, it occurs to me that most people I know keep first aid kits in their bathrooms, and I begin a search. It doesn’t take me long to find a red box in a cabinet, filled to bursting with simple first aid items like bandages, ointment, iodine and cotton swabs; out of place, it was probably a necessary addition when humans began attending Habersham.

I prepare the bandages and scissors while Sven finishes up. Before long, I hear the shower stop, followed by the quiet rustling of Sven drying off. I give him an extra couple minutes before I head back into the showers.

The room is sticky with steam now. Sven’s back is facing me as he rubs the towel through his hair. Even from a distance, I can see his shoulders point where they should round, the way his shoulderblades jut from his back unnaturally; the flat planes of his back are scarred, too, with what look like cuts or lashes. I follow the knobs of his vertebrae, all the way down his spine…

“I did not need to see that,” Xaphan interrupts me, and what I’m doing hits me like a cold brick to the face.

Maybe Darian was on to something; maybe I do need a secret SO, if I’m stooping low enough to eye Sven.

I clear my throat, which makes Sven nearly jump out of his skin. He yanks the towel around his hips and covers himself before hopping around to look at me.

“That’s dangerous,” I say, although I don’t stop him. Someone as sick as him doing one-legged hops would be dangerous enough, but combined with the wet shower floor, it’s probably suicidal.

“Thanks, Mom.” Once again, Sven rolls his eyes. I have to remind myself just who I’m dealing with here, and why; if I fuck it up, Rebekka’s going to end my life one way or another. Not only that, but Sven is making it as difficult for me as humanly possible, since he wants nothing to do with anyone.

“Whatever,” I sigh, “I found a first aid kid, so just get your wet ass over here so we can get you dressed and bandaged already.”

Sven’s eyebrow raises at the phrase “wet ass,” and I try to fight an indignant flush from spreading across my face.

“Busted,” Xaphan snickers.

“Shut up,” I mutter.

Sven raises his hands defensively. “Wasn’t saying anything.”

I want to say, _Not you,_ but it strikes me as the most “normal” interaction I’ve had with Sven, so I leave it at that. I tuck my shoulder under his arm, try not to bump the towel, and drag him out of the showers. I help him settle into a stall with his clothes, and then gather the toiletries while he changes. When he’s done, I sit him on the bench and push up the leg of his pants.

I haven’t been looking too much at his ankle lately, but the swelling is going down; the once-black bruise has gone through purple and is now fading sepia. Hopefully he’ll be walking in no time.

I don’t exactly have experience dealing with broken ankles. I do a simple wrap with the bandage, wrapping it snugly around his ankle and fastening it with a metal prong.

Sven doesn’t say thanks, but I’m not expecting it either. I figured his earlier display of gratitude was all I’d get out of him for a while, if not for ever.

A loud crash echoes from the showers we just exited. Something clatters, squeaks, like metal straining against metal; there’s a hiss, a rush of water.

“I take it that wasn’t you,” I say to Sven, eyes trained on the open doorway.

He doesn’t answer. I glance back at him to see he’s got one hand lingering by his hip, and he’s standing like a dog at attention, focused on the noise.

“Are you--”

Almost out of nowhere, he snarls, “Warlock.” Without waiting for me, he hobbles straight toward the potential danger.

I’m shortly behind him, only to stop dead in the doorway.

Water sprays from broken-off pipes. The stanchion is shredded, blue tiles in scattered piles on the floor. In its place stands a mountain of metal pipes and showerheads; and I’m not being metaphorical when I say stands; as we watch it, the mass turns as if to look at us.

“What the fuck is that.”

“A golem,” Sven says, voice low and angry. “Warlock magic.”

“Well then, let’s get out of here!”

“Not a chance.” Sven’s hand forms a fist, and--

“Holy shit.” The words escape my mouth before I even register what I’m seeing. Whatever Rebekka told me about Sven being powerless was a bald-faced lie, because he’s standing with a goddamn light sword gripped in his hand, like he’s some sort of god going to war.

It’s as big as his forearm and longer, and it glows hot-white, bathing Sven’s pale skin in an other-wordly glow. All I can do is gape at the crazy guy leaping into battle to fight something five times his size with a sword made of light and a broken ankle.

He really has no sense of self-preservation at all, I marvel, aghast.

Sven throws his whole body into a thrust that drives the sword through the middle of the golem with a horrific screech. He tears the blade through the side of it, sending shrapnel flying through the air.

Pipes begin to bend and twist into arms, branching out from the body of the golem. Crippled, Sven stumbles back, but not before one of the arms lash out at him. A hunk of metal slams into his stomach with enough force that I hear the impact.

Sven lets out a quiet “oof” but manages to catch himself on his good ankle. My hands are itching for action, but I’m about as useless as a plastic knife in a gunfight right now; I’m stuck on the sidelines.

Clenching his fists, Sven straightens up and launches into another full-force attack. This time, the sword strikes the metal but doesn’t penetrate; the golem shields itself with its arm and deflects the blow. Sven is thrown off balance by the sheer mass of the creation, and when it swings its arm again, it catches Sven in the mouth. He pitches sideways, clutching his face; when he pulls himself back up, I see blood trickling between his fingers.

Fuck, that thing’s going to kill him, I think. Then I’ll have spent a week acting like a handmaiden to some asshole who can’t even bother to stay alive-- and Rebekka will rat me out to Dean Flamebright.

Still trying to find his footing, Sven’s unable to stop the next wail of the golem, or the one after that. The blows are slow but powerful, and being made of metal, it has to feel like being beaten with crowbars over and over. The strikes batter him without reserve, colliding with his shoulders and face and torso; blood begins to paint the canvas of Sven’s fresh clothes.

He falters, falls to his knees.

The golem knocks him solidly in the temple, and he crumples to a blood-stained mess on the floor.

I can’t watch anymore, even if there’s nothing I can do. Some stupid instinct kicks in, and I throw myself between them.

The arm slams into my shoulder. I cry out and stumble, but I have no retaliation. My only option is to try to grab Sven and run, I know now. But the golem beats down on me-- it knocks the wind out of me, three or four times. Burning pain doubles me over, clutching my stomach, as I try to catch my breath; I cough, and my mouth fills with the taste of blood.

Pain flares up in my head, and my knees buckle beneath me. I careen to the floor, smacking into it like a limp noodle. Paralyzed, I stare at the golem’s feet with terror. This is it; this is how I die, I realize.

“You’re both going to die,” Xaphan says.

 _Thanks,_ I think. _I already figured that out._

“Unless,” he continues, “You take my offer.”

Offers from voices in your head are never trustworthy, and you should never take them, under any circumstances whatsoever. I know that. But lying paralyzed and half-dead on the bathroom floor, with someone dying behind me, I find my choice made for me.

_What do you want?_

“Your body,” Xaphan says, and my gut reaction is, _Not a chance in hell._ But he continues, “When you’re done with it. You won’t need it then. Say yes, and I’ll give you my power. You’ll live. Sven will live.”

 _Or,_ I think, _We both die here and now._

My vision’s starting to fade to black. The edges are fraying, like this might be the last time I see the real world. If I pass out, am I dead? What if I don’t make my mind up quickly enough? In the heat of the moment, I find it isn’t a difficult choice.

_Okay._

Electricity lights my veins on fire, and the room lights up before my eyes. I clench and unclench my fists as a current rushes through my muscles, searing my body to life. What can only be described as power fuels my blood. Suddenly, I’m wide awake and feeling better than ever.

I flinch as an arm of metal surges toward my face to deliver the killing blow. Maybe this was Xaphan’s plan all along-- promise me an out, get my soon-to-be-dead body.

But instead of hitting me, the arm hits a wall of ultraviolet sparks; the piping frays before my eyes, shredded by the force field.

“Find the heart of the golem and destroy it,” Xaphan advises. “It’s the only way unless you know how to find the warlock. And I won’t help you again, so you had best learn to use that power of yours, quickly.”

I clamber to my feet before the golem can try again. My fingertips are crackling with energy that I don’t know how to manifest.

First things first-- find the heart. My eyes scour the body of the golem for an obvious relic, but it’s coming straight at me again. I dive to the side; a fist of iron punches a hole straight through the tile where I had just been.

Oh, good, I made it angry.

I scurry to the side of the room opposite the unconscious Sven. He’s the reason we’re in this mess, and I’ll be damned if I let him die without telling him what a fucking moron he is. The golem stomps toward me, but I’m still looking for a heart.

Metal, pipes, showerheads-- it’s got to be in there somewhere, right? Maybe Xaphan made it up…

I’m too distraught to realize planning ahead backed myself into a corner; this time, when the golem raises its fist, I have nowhere to dive.

All those close encounters, and my own stupidity does me in.

My hands reflexively block my face as the swing comes. A wall of iron slams into my hands, but they crackle again, like they’re trying to tell me something. I tighten my grip around the pipes, and my fingers rip through the metal like I’m tearing into a loaf of bread.

Okay, I can work with this.

I wrench my hands to the side, putting my full weight behind the swing-- the golem tumbles, crashing into the wall beside me.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, but there’s no time to impress myself. I scramble away and back to the open center of the room. I bought myself time, but as I watch with horror, the hole my hands made reforms itself, metal bowing and creaking to reform the golem’s arm.

Unfazed by my damage, it tramples toward me again. I find panic swelling in my chest, turning my stomach. What if it just wears me down, then kills me? I need to gain some traction.

It smashes its arm into my grip again. This time, I sink my fingers in and hold it there while my eyes probe the construct for any sign of weakness. It all looks the same to me-- like iron and metal bent into a grotesquely human form.

Its other arm slams into my side with a sickening crack. I buckle at the sheer pain that courses through me, the screaming ache in my ribs; I cough again and spatter blood onto my hands.

When I straighten up again, a gleam catches my eye. There-- a foot above me, lodged in what would be the construct’s shoulder-- something glows blue. I can’t reach it; it’s too high.

Unless I climb.

As soon as I realize what I have to do, I use my hold on the arm to yank myself upwards as I jump. The pain in my side and gut screams at me, but adrenaline and the will to live propel me off my feet. My shoes scrabble for a foothold while I try to keep my momentum going. My hands pull me up the construct’s body, along its chest, headed straight for the heart.

The pipes begin to creak and arc again. My stomach drops into my knees when I realize the golem isn’t rebuilding himself; he’s incorporating me. Metal tightens around my legs; I kick at it, flail my feet, still trying to get the other six inches I need to reach the heart. Clawing at anything in my reach, I crush a handful of iron in my fist and wrench it out.

The pipes tighten around my knees and hips. I no longer have a foothold to push off of, but I’m so close… I dig my hands in and rip, slashing at anything in my reach like a wounded animal.

My crazed mauling pulls something loose around my feet. With renewed vigor, I kick off and launch myself into the golem’s shoulder. I can already feel the pipes folding in around me again as I sink my fingers into the place I saw the heart and pull, as hard as I can.

I pull out a fistful of metal and a glowing blue stone. The golem falters, weakened, and I fall to the floor with a nasty thud. I’m wheezing now, still coughing up blood, but I’ve got the heart in my hand: a glowing blue rune etched with symbols I don’t recognize. It thrums, blood-warm in my palm; the energy in my hand crackles around it, forming purple arcs of miniature lightning.

It feels dark and dangerous, like staring into an abyss. I crush my fist around it as tight as I can, digging my nails into my skin; the stone splinters and shatters like glass in my hand, just like that. I hear more than see the golem fall; a hunk of metal and the destruction it reigned is all that remains.

Relief floods my chest. It’s over; I did it.

As the adrenaline of a near-death experience begins to fade, I cough blood into my hands. My vision swims, and the room spins around me, even though I’m lying still.

I did it, I think again, and promptly pass out.


	6. Hospitals and Rituals

Waking is slow and painful. My head is pounding, my entire torso is on fire, and I’m pretty sure I’ve already died of thirst. I try to wet my lips with a sandpaper tongue, but it just hurts and tastes like iron.

Iron…

I clench my eyes tight as the memory of the golem turns my stomach. I remember Sven and I both getting the shit beaten out of us.

But then--

A memory begins to resurface: _Xaphan_.

At the thought, my eyes shoot open, effectively blinding myself with the fluorescent lights above my bed. I groan as the brightness gives my headache a solid _thwump_ , like there’s another golem going to town inside my skull. After a minute, I open my eyes more slowly to gauge my surroundings.

It looks like I’m in the hospital wing of the school. I’ve only been here a handful of times, mostly for physicals and the one time I broke my nose falling out of a tree. Needless to say, this is definitely the worst off I’ve been in my years at Habersham, despite my delinquency.

It’s then that I remember again the bargain I struck with Xaphan, and my headache strikes back with a vengeance. I don’t know that I had a choice at the time, but damn if I don’t feel like an idiot now. I stare at my hands: hands that, last night, were shooting purple sparks and ripping iron to shreds. Now, they just look normal, even a little pale.

I pull myself to sitting with my ribs screaming at me the whole way. The room is small, with six beds. Four of them are empty, but the other one holds a bundle of bandages, under which I spy blond hair, pale skin and bony arms.

I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re both alive, so I didn’t fuck that up, surprisingly.

“Sven,” I hiss quietly, afraid to cause too much noise and draw the attention of medical staff.

The bundle shifts with a quiet groan. “We’re not dead,” Sven mumbles.

I still haven’t figured out how to explain it to him without saying, _Yeah, I sold my future corpse to the voice inside my head so that we didn’t die_. Something about that just screams “bad idea,” especially when I remember the hatred in Sven’s eyes when he said, “Warlock magic.”

“Why aren’t we dead?”

I try not to be offended at the implication that I couldn't have possibly saved our lives, because the truth is, I couldn't have-- not without Xaphan, anyway.

“Just tell him he did it,” Xaphan suggests. It might not be a completely terrible idea, if Sven was stupid.

“I don't know,” I lie. “The golem knocked me out.”

There's a tense silence, and I can feel the suspicion radiating off of Sven. He's so quiet that I think he should be hard to read, but I'm learning that he wears his emotions on his sleeve, if you bother to learn the language.

He shifts again, then lets out a half-panicked, “Fuck.” I turn to see him struggling against a band of white energy wrapped around his wrist; as he swings and tugs at his hand, it hisses back at him. “Fuck!” he repeats.

“What are…” I trail off, remembering the look in his eyes when I suggested the medical wing. Clearly, he has a history here, if the restraints are any indication. “Do you usually try to sneak off before you're cleared?”

Sven snarls at me. “Mind your own business.”

I hold my hands up in mock surrender. “Suit yourself,” I say, “You can stay here if you want. I'm breaking out.”

Sven’s expression runs the gamut from hostile to surprised to hopeful to resigned in the span of seconds. When he arrives at the final stop, I raise an eyebrow at him. Does he actually think I'm going to leave him here? He's not lucky enough to get rid of me that easily.

I swing my legs out of the bed with only minor agony. Standing is more painful, with every muscle in my core tightening and burning, the ache traveling from my guts through my ribcage and up to my swimming headache. I stand for a minute, clutching the edge of the bed, while I gain my bearings. It's only now that I realize I'm barefoot in a hospital gown, and I cast about for my actual clothes, because I don’t want to be wandering the halls like an escaped mental patient.

Which I guess I am, more or less.

I find our belongings neatly folded and stowed in a compartment in the wall: a basket of toiletries and two outfits, plus Sven’s laundry. With one cautionary glance to the doorway, I quickly shuck my paper gown and pull my clothes back on. Once I’m dressed, I throw the other pile of belongings on Sven’s bed.

“Well,” I say to the motionless bundle that I know to be Sven, “Get up then.”

He turns to eye me suspiciously, hair mussed from the sheets. “How?”

Rolling my eyes, I amble to his bedside. “There has to be some way to get you out of that,” I say, motioning to his restraint.

“Yeah,” he replies slowly, like I'm stupid, “If one of us was a witch or a fey. If you hadn't noticed, it's magic.”

“I've seen you use magic!”

“It has limits,” he says defensively. “I'm not…” He frowns, apparently searching for the words. When he finds them, he's unable to meet my eyes. “I told you before, I'm not manaaja. What you saw in the showers was-- it's all I have.”

I'm faced with a decision. What if I could get him out? Should I risk outing myself as a fledgling warlock just to free the one person I know who hunts people like me?

“He won't know,” Xaphan says smugly. He’s always game to blow his own horn. “I'm not any old demon, you know. But if I were you, I'd leave him there.”

Yeah okay, I think sarcastically, Xaphan’s trustworthy. (I have to make a conscious effort not to shudder at the phrase ‘not any old demon.’) Still, my other option is to leave Sven there, and for some reason I find that I don't really want to do that.

I touch my fingers to his bare wrist, and he jerks back like it burns, clutching it to his chest; for a second, I think he knows somehow, but the look on his face is embarrassed more than angry or frightened. I stand and stare at him until he lowers his arm back to his side. This time, when I touch him, he flinches but doesn't draw back. His skin is softer than it looks, a little puffy where it's scarred but otherwise thin enough to see the blue veins that run beneath it. He flexes his fingers, like he’s fighting the urge to rip away from me, but his gaze is trained carefully on my face.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” I tell him.

Sven looks less than convinced, if his silent frown says anything.

His distrust is something I'm getting used to, though, so I just concentrate on figuring out what to do. As I focus on Sven's wrist, I feel a low thrum of energy, a soft beat that I almost could've mistaken for a pulse. I hook my fingers under the band of the restraint. On contact, my fingers spark to life, lit from within by a purple glow.

Surprised, Sven jerks again; as he yanks his arm back toward his chest, there's a loud crack that echoes and reverberates off the walls. The white band stretches against my fingers, then breaks, dissipating with a hiss.

For a minute, we stare at each other. Sven is clearly suspicious, even cautious, clutching his now free hand against his chest, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn in a thin frown.

“You didn't tell me you were a witch,” he accuses. “I thought you were a mun.”

My mind reels. A witch? Well, better than a warlock, right?

“It’s not like you asked,” I say defensively.

I start to pull away, before Sven can smell the lie on me or whatever the hell he’s trying to do by staring through my soul, but he catches my wrist. I’m surprised again by how unnaturally strong his grip is, even when he looks a step from death.

“You killed the golem, didn’t you.” I flounder, but Sven doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I… wasn’t sure you’d believe me,” I tell him, which is close enough to the truth. He hasn’t exactly had confidence in my abilities, despite the fact that I’ve been the one to get us out of both his messes so far.

Sven tears his eyes away, so I can finally breathe again. “No more lies,” he says. “You’re… clearly more capable than I thought. And I’m…” He takes a breath so deep that it looks painful; a flush colors his cheeks with shame. “I’m not as strong as I should be. So, if you want to help find the warlock, I won’t try to stop you.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say in a ham-fisted attempt to lighten the mood. Judging by Sven’s half-flinch, it is not well-received. “Seems so far like the warlock’s doing a hell of a job finding us, anyway.”

“Look,” Sven says sharply, “Just take the compliment and shut up.”

(Huh. So that’s what a compliment from Sven sounds like.)

“Alright, alright, compliment taken. Better be careful or I’m gonna start thinking you actually like hanging out with me.”

“Don't get any ideas,” he mutters, but I'm having trouble keeping the grin off my face.

“Come on, then,” I say, “Get dressed and let’s get out of here.”

Sven’s face falls once more. “I don't think I can walk,” he admits.

He couldn't walk before he decided to throw himself into a fight with a golem, so I wasn't expecting that he could. I haven't completely figured out how I'm getting us back to the dorms; I just know that I am.

I pull the blankets off of him. In the hospital-style gown, he looks even more sickly than usual, even though I can see that his stomach has softened from the meals I've been force-feeding him. He struggles to sit up while the oversized gown threatens to slide down his bony shoulders. His hair sticks out at all angles, messy and haphazard. The harshness of his dark circles and newly busted lip is softened by his bedhead and the white sheets that all but swallow him whole.

It's… cute.

“What?” he bites out. (I must be staring.)

“You just… look different.” Vulnerable, even childlike, I think to myself. They aren't words I would normally pair with Sven, who's typically so guarded, but I feel like I'm starting to understand. He's still obnoxiously rude, but there's a story in there somewhere. The way he threw himself into battle with the golem is a testament to how little he cares about himself, no matter how defensive he is. I just can’t pin him down.

“Well, don't get used to it,” Sven says, only a little harsher than necessary.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I give you a week before you’re back to cursing at strangers in supply closets.”

The look Sven gives me is cautious, but there's a small smile forming on his mouth. I don’t know that I’ve ever really seen him smile before, and I catch myself lingering on the curve of his lips. “I don't know,” he says slowly, “Now that I know the kind of crowd they attract…”

“You’re one to talk!” I shoot back, but I can’t help the small grin tugging at my own lips. I’m not sure why, but something feels different now: Sven is different than he’s been before, friendlier, or less guarded somehow; although whether it’s because of exhaustion or the high of a near-death experience, I can’t say. Shaking my head to clear it, I help Sven to his feet and situate my arm around his back.

He hisses in pain, face drawn but determined. I let him stabilize; he shifts uncomfortably, like he’s trying to stretch his bones out of the pain, and tests his foot against the floor.

“Well, I think they might have already worked on my ankle, at least,” he says, like he’s not fighting the urge to lie back down. He shifts again, pulling apart from me enough that he’s only gripping my shoulder for balance. “I think I can put some weight on it.”

I consider telling him not to push himself, but honestly, it’s better that I’m not struggling to get us back to the dorms. Standing upright is hard enough, with my ribs aching every time I breathe or even think about moving. I’m already trying to map the route in my head, to calculate the shortest and least painful path from the beds to one of our dorms. By the time Sven looks like he’s ready to start walking, all I manage to do is give myself a headache.

“Get dressed; we’re going to my room,” I decide. We’re already on the third floor, so it means no stairs, which is a welcome bonus. I don’t think either of us are up for that challenge.

Naturally, Sven loves to argue, and now is no different; I barely get the words out before his face wrinkles with annoyance. “Don’t you have a roommate?”

“Yeah,” I say, “Me and all the other people who can play well with others.” I shoot a glance his way to catch his offended expression. “Don’t worry; he’s cool.”

At that, Sven raises an eyebrow. “So what’s he doing hanging out with you?”

“Har har,” I mutter. “Get a move on.”

Sven’s other eyebrow hikes up his forehead. “I don’t stalk you, you know; you’re going to have to actually tell me where your room is.”

I ignore the light implication that I’ve been stalking him, because he fucking deserved it, anyway.

“335, Pollux; now get dressed,” I say, brushing past him; he doesn't take long to be back at my side, leaning on my shoulder for support, and I lead the way out of the hospital wing.  The medical staff must be in the back of the hospital wing, because we manage to sneak out with no adult encounters of any kind.

The corridors are dark and still; thankfully, we haven’t been unconscious the entire night. It was barely after curfew when we went to the showers, and the hallways remain devoid of life. I still don’t want to get caught by the nightly patrol, though, so I rush us as fast as our bodies can manage, despite the burning ache that creeps through my bones.

“Shh,” Sven hisses suddenly, pulling at my shoulder. I bite back a pained groan as my ribs twist under the strain. “Do you hear that?” His voice is a ghost of a whisper at my ear, the only thing I can hear besides my pounding headache.

“What?”

“It sounds like…” He shushes me again-- even though I’m not talking-- and shoves me down a side corridor.

“What the--”

Sven slaps his hands over my mouth. I flail to try to get out of his grip, but he has me pushed pretty solidly against a wall. “What part of _shh_ ,” he half-growls, “Are you having trouble understanding?”

Seeing that I’m out of reasonable options, I lick his hand. He rips it back, even stumbling a little in his surprise, while I try to get the taste of salty palm out of my mouth.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Sven mutters as much to himself as to me while he wipes his hand on his pants.

“Yeah, well at least I’m not shoving people into dark hallways.”

“It was for your own safety! I heard-- or I thought I heard...” Sven shakes his head. He’s looking determined again, a look I’ve only seen when warlocks are involved. Without waiting for me, he starts limping back out of the hallway; but he’s not headed for the Pollux wing now. “I have to see it for myself.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re talking crazy?” I follow at his heels, unable to stop myself from being curious again.

“You should go to bed, Morgan,” Sven says without turning.

“Yeah, like hell I am. You _just_ said we’d team up to find the warlock.”

“Who said anything about a warlock?”

“You didn’t have to,” I point out. “Every time you even think about warlocks, you get this pissy look on your face.”

(“That’s just his face,” Xaphan mutters, which is true, but it’s not really the time for jokes.)

“Look--” Sven starts, but I interrupt him.

“The next thing about to come out of your mouth had better be, ‘this way, because that’s where we’re going!’”

“Why don’t you ever just listen to me?” Sven demands. His ears are red with irritation, eyes narrowed and lips thin.

“Because if I ever listen to you, you’re going to end up dead!”

“And if you don’t listen to me, _you_ will!”

Surprised, I draw back. I wasn’t even aware that it was something Sven would worry about, nevermind that it would be on the forefront of his mind. Still, it’s not like I’ve been the one at death’s edge lately.

“What are you talking about?”

Sven turns his gaze away from me, seeking out the wall. “What I think I heard, it’s… I don’t want to say. I need to see it first.”

“Yeah,” I reply, “So you’ve said, but you still haven’t said why.”

“Oh… If she’s right, you’ll know why.”

The tone in Sven’s voice sends chills running down my spine. I’m reminded of his knowing comment about the acid, the look in his eyes somewhere between hollow and haunted. Maybe he’s right that I shouldn’t follow, but I have to know.

“Then lead the way,” I tell him.

Sven’s steps are slow, lilted by his still-tender ankle, but I can tell he knows where he’s going. I follow him back down the hallway and down a set of stairs, cringing the whole way. Silent and stark white in the blackness of twilight, he’s more a ghost or a ghoul than a student.

We’re in one of the offshoots from the grand entrance, which I know to be a set of doors opening into a stained glass dome, when Sven pulls up short.

“Morgan, go get help,” he says firmly.

I push past him and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Lit by five black candles, lying in a bed of ash, is a girl I know from History. Her skin is the color of dust, her eyes and mouth frozen open in a silent scream. I turn away, but the image is burned into my eyes. Her hands, splayed open, outstretched; symbols drawn on the floor in blood, still wet.

My stomach turns; she was probably alive just hours ago. Her body is probably still warm.

“I told you,” Sven says, “I tried to--”

 _Six students were sacrificed_ , Dean Flamebright had said. Quite some time had passed since that conversation, but I couldn’t get the weight of it off my chest. What if this is my fault? What if it’s because I took down the golem?

“Morgan, you need to go tell someone,” Sven says again.

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find whoever did this,” he says, shaking a finger at the scene.

Neither of us are in shape for a fight, but I’m not letting Sven go alone. My chest is warring with fear, disgust, and anger at the desecration before us. Habersham isn’t exactly near and dear to me, but there’s an instinct kicking hard at the idea of someone trying to ruin it; it’s been home to me for years now.

“Cover your ears,” I warn Sven. I’m not expecting him to listen, so I don’t wait long before turning my face to the ceiling, cupping my hands around my mouth, and shouting at the top of my lungs. “Help! Someone’s hurt! Help!” Sven’s hands are clasped over his ears now, his body hunched away from me, wincing at the volume. “There-- someone’s been told.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re batshit crazy?” he asks. It might be the poor lighting, but he almost looks awed.

“Once or twice. Now hurry up before someone comes.”

Sven grips my elbow and pulls me away from the scene.

“I have some more bad news,” he says.

“If you say there’s been another sacrifice, I’m going to jump out of the window.”

Sven cringes. “It’s almost that bad. I need to talk to my sister.”


	7. Sisters and Roommates

I stare at Sven for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, I say, “Your sister.”

Sven shrugs helplessly. “Whatever you’re thinking, she’s worse. But I don’t exactly have a choice.”

Right; Sven doesn’t know that I know Rebekka. I swallow the sarcastic comments brewing on my tongue. I don’t know her well-- or at all, really-- but my first impression of her wasn’t a pleasant one. As far as I know, I’m still technically being blackmailed to keep Sven alive and out of harm’s way.

I sure do hope helping him hunt down a warlock isn’t a direct violation of that pact.

“She can’t be that bad,” I say uncertainly, because it feels like the thing to say.

The look Sven shoots me over his shoulder is as cold and hard as stone; the force of it actually stops me mid-step. “I’m not interested in talking about her,” he says firmly. He watches me for a minute, so intense that my palms start to sweat. I hold my breath until he finally looks away and starts walking again.

“If you hate her so much, why are we going to talk to her?”

Sven snorts. “You really don’t know how to quit when you’re ahead, do you?”

“Nope.”

“And you’re sure I’m not getting rid of you any time soon?”

I stop for a second to think. There’s a killer on campus-- one I’m hunting. I’ve been beaten nearly unconscious by an iron golem, hung over a pit of acid, and chased by two different packs of mutant animals. On top of all that, I’m being blackmailed and I sold my future corpse to a voice in my head.

Things have gone steadily downhill since I started hanging around Sven, so there isn’t really a sane excuse for my grin when I realize he doesn’t sound like he even wants me gone now.

“Nope,” I repeat. “Are you gonna spill?”

Sven doesn’t say anything for a while, just keeps walking toward the library. Away from the dorms and the main entrance hall, the corridors are almost pitch-black. If Sven didn't practically glow in the dark, it would be hard to follow him.

“I don’t think he’s going to tell you,” Xaphan says; I can’t help but agree.

We’re both surprised when Sven stops in his tracks; I nearly crash into him, stumbling a little in my haste to stop on a dime. We're close, close enough that I can hear the sharp intake of breath before he opens his mouth.

“She left,” he says shortly. “When my mother was killed.”

So that’s why Rebekka said she wasn’t his favorite person, why he’s so angry with her.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what makes the words come out, when I haven’t offered an apology for anything so far. Maybe it’s the way he grit the words out, or maybe it’s the fist clenched at his side; maybe it’s the exhaustion that’s burning behind my eyes, making me some sort of sap. I don’t expect Sven to understand what I’m only now coming to grips with myself, but I’m starting to think I actually care what happens to him.

It's a little scary, considering how many times I've had to save his life already.

“Don’t be,” Sven says stiffly. “She’s not worth it.”

“Not for her, for you.”

“I don’t need your pity,” he says with a scoff.

“It’s not pity, Sven,” I find myself saying impatiently.

He turns enough to look at me cautiously. “Then what is it?”

I falter, not sure of the word. “Friendship?”

Sven’s brow wrinkles with confusion. His expression makes me unsure whether he’s ever had a friend before. If it were anyone else, it would sound crazy, but with Sven I believe it. “We’re friends?”

It doesn’t seem quite right, doesn’t quite fit, but it’s the word I went with, so I stick to my guns.

“Well, what else would you call it? You spend, like, all of your free time with me.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that revelation. Even in the dim light, I can see the flush that darkens his cheeks. “I guess I… figured it was just the warlock thing.”

“You do know I’m not going to leave you alone when it’s over, right?”

In the span of an hour, I get my second glimpse of Sven’s smile. It’s small, awkward and shy; it looks foreign on his face, like it’s uncomfortable for him to even do it, but there’s something contagious about it that I can’t quite place. Again, I find myself lingering on the unfamiliar expression, even as I fail to stifle my own smile.

It doesn't last long. A scream splits the silence behind us, and the memory of what we saw tears the humor off both of our faces.

“We should go,” Sven says. “The quarters above the library.”

“Right behind you.”

I follow at Sven's heels, although each step he takes becomes less of a walk and more of a limp. If it weren't for the growing pain in my side, I'd offer my shoulder, but it's becoming increasingly clear that we should count ourselves lucky to make it to the library, let alone track a warlock in our current states.

Whether Sven has come to that conclusion on his own terms, I can't say; he's quiet, and I can't read his face when his back is to me. Knowing Sven, though, he'll probably push himself with no food or rest until he drops dead. I suppose it will end up being my job to talk him down.

I’m clammy and irritable when we reach the stairwell that leads to the librarian’s quarters. The light coming from a passing wall sconce reflects the sheen on Sven’s face and neck, so I know I’m not alone in my misery; his cheeks are flushed from the exertion, but the rest of his face is as pale as bone; he practically pulls himself up the stairs, all but collapsing into the door.

It gives way beneath his weight, and Sven tumbles forward with a soft thump as he hits the floor. He groans and rolls onto his back but doesn’t bother trying to stand.

“Sven,” Rebekka says by way of greeting. She’s fully dressed, her hair swept into a messy bun, with a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You didn’t give me much choice,” Sven bites out. He finally sits up, although he refuses to look at his sister. “I’m not here for a social visit. What do you know?”

Rebekka’s eyes flit to me, caution brewing in her gaze. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time…”

“Now is the only time. I won’t ask twice, Rebekka.” Sven’s tone is ice cold and razor sharp, in a way I’m not sure I’ve even heard before. Yeah, he’s been rude and mean with me, but his voice now feels like murder. There’s a lot of suppressed rage there, that’s for sure.

“It isn’t that simple, Sven; you have to understand--”

“I don’t ‘have’ to do anything when it comes to you.”

“Sven, you aren’t being fair.”

“Don’t get me started on ‘fair.’ Not here, not now. Just tell me what you know and we’ll leave.”

Rebekka purses her lips and looks between the two of us. As unhappy as she is, I’m that uncomfortable; I don’t know the history, don’t want to know it, and don’t want to get involved. I feel awkward enough just standing in the doorway while they argue. I try to tell myself it must be normal sibling rivalry, but it just doesn’t feel right.

“I don’t know a name,” she says finally, looking away with a sigh. “I know a face and a rune.”

“Then what fucking good are you?” Sven demands.

“It’s more than we had,” I say in Rebekka’s defense.

“Don’t you start, too,” Sven warns me. “She’s no help if we don’t have a name, unless you have some sort of way to get her visions onto a piece of paper.”

“Unless… we take her with us,” I suggest.

“And then what? Walk her up to every humanoid on campus? ‘Is this the warlock? How about this one?’ Right, that won’t cause a stir,” Sven says bitterly. “We’re still at square one, and she chucked our dice out the goddamn window.”

“Well, I’m open to any better ideas.”

Sven glares at me silently in response. It’s obvious he wants as little to do with Rebekka as possible, but I’m at a loss for other options. Besides, I’m tired and hungry and sore, and thinking never has been my strong suit.

“Then magic,” Rebekka offers quietly. “I know there are students who can read minds, or even project images. If you’re set on avoiding me, that is.”

Sven doesn’t reply to her last comment, only saying, “Yeah, too bad none of us are one of them.”

I distinctly recall a party last year. Darian had invited me, and it ended up bombing-- it was on a Tuesday, among other reasons-- but what was most impressive was this kid who had used his magic to play memories-- concerts, movies, you name it. Taylor or something, I think he was called; he was a witch who had a late class with Darian.

“No,” I say slowly, “But I might know someone.”

***

Sven and Rebekka hate each other so much that they don't bother arguing with me as much as they do each other. It’s settled that Sven and I will break the ice with Darian on our own, introduce him to the idea that I've been leading a secret warlock-hunting life for the last week or so, and see if he knows any information about Trevor or whatever his name was. Hopefully he'll be able to help us divine more information about the warlock, and if he can't, we don't have much to lose, anyway.

When we leave the library, the school is on lockdown, and the inspectors are accounting for each and every student. Sven and I are probably going to get busted, sooner or later, and I can only hope that Rebekka will be kind enough to provide us with an alibi.

“So this is the ‘cool’ roommate you told me about?” Sven asks skeptically as we head back toward the dorms. “I didn't know they even roomed muns and fey together.”

“Half-fey,” I correct. “I've known him since we were kids; we were neighbors.”

A look of confused curiosity passes over Sven's face, although he doesn't press the issue. I know what he’s thinking: since when do fey live in houses?

Neither of Darian’s parents are in his life. Since Darian’s mother was outcast from the fey community, and his father didn’t even stick around for his birth, Darian spent most of his formative years in foster homes. Around the time we were both eight, the couple that lived next door adopted him, and we’ve been friends ever since.

It’s a long and boring explanation, especially when I’m much more interested in what’s going on between Sven and Rebekka.

“How did you know about the student we found?” I ask him.

Sven frowns. “Rebekka. We share a… connection.”

“What, so she’s in your head all the time?”

“Not exactly; it’s complicated. It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Sven says as we near my room.

“Maybe you should give her a chance,” I suggest lightly. They’re both abrasive, but I keep getting the feeling that Rebekka genuinely cares about her brother, no matter what he thinks. He’s just being thick-headed and stubborn about it.

“Maybe you should mind your own business,” Sven snaps back, so I drop the subject and push open my door.

“Oh thank the stars…” No sooner do I set foot in the door than I have Darian’s arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. I’m not surprised, since I don’t usually go missing for twelve hours after curfew, but I do kind of wish he would live up to the expectations I’ve been setting up for him. “They put us on lockdown because of some dead student, but they didn’t say who…”

I’m not known for being sappy or emotional, but Darian’s words soften me a little. What can I say, it’s good to know someone would miss me if I was gone. And I can’t say I like the idea of making Darian worry on my account, even if it wasn’t like I could have checked in.

“About that,” I say. “We need your help.”

Darian pulls back to look between Sven and me. It can’t look good, showing up with a stranger (who looks like Sven), both of us bruised and tired, on the same night that a student is mysteriously murdered. Luckily, Darian knows me well enough that I don’t see even a glimmer of suspicion pass over his face.

“Darian, Sven; Sven, Darian. You’re best friends now, so make the most of it.”

There’s silence for a solid minute while they size each other up:  
Darian, always small compared to a human, short and lean, dark-haired, green-eyed, with amber skin; Sven, tall and bony, as pale as a ghost, and covered in scars. Looking at them standing next to each other, they’re like night and day.

It’s a weird moment to realize that Sven has somehow become very important in my life in a very short period of time.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Darian says suddenly. Sven pulls his head back, half-alarmed, and Darian elaborates, “Our five-thirty. Practical Applications. You’ve been gone for… a while.”

A rosy flush brightens Sven’s pallor. I’ve seen this expression on him once or twice, lost and embarrassed, like he can’t figure out why anyone would even care. But that’s one of Darian’s specialties-- and why he’s as well-liked as he is, being unable to fit in as a half-breed; he’s honestly just a good person.

“Thank you,” Sven says softly.

“Okay, that's not fair,” I joke. “I had to save your life twice before I even got a half-hearted ‘thanks!’”

“Well, you weren't nice about it,” Sven mutters as an excuse.

Darian just looks confused. I've been leaving him out of everything lately, and keeping way too many secrets while I was at it. I feel a little guilty about the concerned crease in his forehead; I definitely owe him an explanation or two later.

“So, uh, what's going on?” Darian asks. “Are you guys okay?”

“More or less.” Mostly less. “It's been a long night.”

“Sit down and fill me in.”

We do. I leave out the details about what I was doing in Sven's room, how I made a deal with Xaphan, and much of what little I know about Sven being a _manaaja_ ; but I tell Darian about the iron golem, our trip to the medical wing, and our daring escape.

I tell him about the grisly scene we came across, the reason the whole school's in lockdown. I tell him about our conversation with Rebekka and how we need to find the witch from last year's party.

“And then what? You guys aren't seriously going to hunt down this warlock, are you? If the Dean and the teachers can't… What are you going to do if you actually find them?”

It's a good question, one I haven't even asked myself yet, because I've been too busy trying not to get myself killed. I falter and look to Sven for guidance, only to wish I hadn't.

His eyes are hard and his voice is cold when he says, “We'll put an end to this.”

“You're joking, right?” I say nervously. I know he's serious, but we can't go around killing students, warlocks or not.

Yeah, I might be a little biased, but I sort of have a horse in this race now.

“Was anything we saw tonight a joke?”

“No, but…”

“That girl had a family,” Sven says.

“So does the warlock!”

“You don't know that,” Sven says.

“Yeah, and neither do you.” I look at Sven for a minute. He's usually not this unreasonable, or at least I can usually understand where he's coming from. All I can guess is that he has a grudge that he's not sharing. “What's your deal with warlocks anyway?”

“Does hearing me tell you to mind your own business never get old?” He’s always snapping, always trying to shut me out, and I can’t even be bothered to be offended. At this point, it’s expected.

“Not when you’re threatening to kill students,” I shoot back.

“I think what Morgan is trying to say,” Darian says much more gently than I ever could, “Is that we might be able to understand if you tell us more.”

“Doubtful.” Sven regards Darian with a stony gaze, but even he eventually wilts under Darian’s sorrowful green eyes. I’ve never quite figured out if it’s fey magic or if he’s just that charming, but Darian definitely has a way of making people talk. “They’re evil, okay? They make pacts with demons and then they sacrifice innocent people.”

Sven has only ever talked about one person’s death: his mother’s. It drove away his sister, so he lost two close family members because of it. It’s all clicking into place now, why Sven hates warlocks so much-- they’re the reason he’s been alone for so long.

“We’ll find them,” I say certainly, “And then we’ll turn them in to the Dean. We’re not going to start killing people.”

I can tell from Sven’s frown that he knows it’s the right call, even if it doesn’t look like he loves the idea.

“So what do you guys need from me?” Darian asks.

“There was this kid last year, at a party. I think he was a witch. He could play memories-- Tony or Travis or something…”

“Tyler,” Darian corrects, because he can actually be bothered to remember people’s names.

“Sure. We were hoping you still knew where to find him, because we have a bit of a favor to ask.”

Darian nods. “I have a class with him. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime… you two look like you need some rest.”

“I don’t--” Sven begins to protest, as usual, but Darian cuts him off.

“Especially you, Sven.” There’s something placating about Darian’s tone, almost paternal, that makes Sven back down. I find myself increasingly intrigued at this strange pull Darian apparently has over Sven-- and a little annoyed at myself that I didn’t start utilizing Darian’s talents until just now. Maybe it would have been easier to get Sven to eat something if I’d asked Darian.

“My bed’s big enough; we can share,” I offer, only a little afraid that Sven might try to choke me in my sleep. Better me than Darian, anyway, I reason.

“You really don’t understand personal space, do you.”

“Come on, you’re so skinny it’s like you’re not even there. I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor when you’re still hurt.”

Hesitating for a second, Sven frowns, but I’m right as usual.

“Fine,” he relents, “But no funny business.”

I stifle a laugh. “Yeah, okay. It’ll be a struggle, but I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Whatever,” Sven mutters.

We settle down into bed, fully clothed and exhausted. It’s a full-size bed, so it’s a little bit cramped, especially because of Sven’s awkward elbows and knobby knees. Even when I try to get comfortable, I run out of places to put my arms. Meanwhile, Sven shifts uncomfortably while Darian locks the door and shuts off the lights, so that he can settle back down for bed now that his roommate is no longer missing.

“Goodnight, guys; get some rest,” Darian says.

Sven shifts again, his elbow digging into my side. I hiss in pain and jerk back, which nearly topples me off the bed. Clearly this isn’t going to work exactly like I’d planned. Maybe if Sven was just a little less averse to physical contact…

I’m tired and willing to push his boundaries, so I settle until I’m comfortable and then rest my hand on his shoulder; Sven jerks in response, but to my surprise, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, after a few tense seconds, he seems to accept it and relaxes. It’s a little intimate, more so than I meant for it to be, but Sven doesn’t call me on it.

Instead, he just quietly says, “Goodnight, Morgan.”

It’s probably the nicest he’s ever been to me, and it makes me smile despite the crazy circumstances surrounding it. Underneath all his snark and bitterness, somewhere deep down, he’s not a complete asshole.

Of course, I can’t stop myself from poking the bear.

“Don’t hurt yourself being too nice,” I say.

“Shut up.” Sven elbows me again, and I shove him in return, but I can almost feel his mood lifting. It’s a good feeling.

“Goodnight, Sven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, not a very eventful chapter, but important for advancing the plot... next chapter should hold more action!


	8. Secrets and Visions

“Morgan.”

Darian’s hushed voice draws me from sleep. He shakes my shoulder, and I drowsily bat his hand away as I pull myself to sitting with a pained groan-- my ribs are burning like they’re on fire. Maybe I should have stayed in the medical wing a little while longer… 

“Whassit?” I slur, rubbing at my eyes. 

“I’m worried about Sven,” Darian whispers. 

Sven; right. I cast about the room, but he’s nowhere to be seen; Darian nods toward the bathroom, and my eyes settle on the closed door and the light spilling from the crack beneath it. I’m not sure why, but my stomach turns, nervous for a reason I can’t explain. 

“Have you checked on him?” I ask around a yawn. 

Darian shakes his head. “I thought it might be best if you did.” 

Confused, I turn to look at Darian. “He likes you better anyway.” 

“But he trusts you, Morgan.”

I can’t help but snort. “He doesn’t trust anyone.” 

“You might be blind, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” 

I’m not sure what Darian means by that, and I’m too tired to try to question it. I’m also a little peeved because he’s usually a little nicer when he points out my shortcomings. Grumpily, I shove off the blankets and push Darian out of my way. 

“Knock knock!” I call, also rapping on the door. When silence meets me, I feel the beginnings of concern start to bubble in my chest. Not that I’m going to tell Darian he might be right. “Sven?” I call, knocking again. 

Still no answer. 

I try the handle, to find it locked. Sneakily, I look over my shoulder; Darian is trying his best to give us a little privacy, however concerned he may be. Well… Might as well experiment a little, while no one’s watching to see me embarrass myself. I tighten my hand around the handle and think of the electricity that coursed through me a night ago, when my fingertips were tearing through the iron golem. The memory alone is enough that my hand feels hot with energy. I grip the handle and pull-- the lock clicks hollowly, and I push the door open. 

Sven is sitting on the tile floor, with his back against the wall and his head between his knees. I can see his back shaking, each breath coming short and fast, like he’s just come up for air. White-knuckled, his hands are folded at the back of his neck, twined through his messy hair. Beside his hip lies a small pocket knife, the edge of its blade inked with blood. 

It’s a scene that scares me enough to shut the door behind me, to spare Darian the horror. He’d probably drag Sven straight to a doctor himself if he saw this.

“Sven.” The name falls from my lips without preamble as I drop to my knees. I know how to pull him up from acid-pits, how to keep him from starving to death; but what the hell am I supposed to do when he’s sitting on a bathroom floor with a bloody knife, barely able to catch his breath? He doesn’t look at me, like he doesn’t even realize I’m there. 

I know he hates physical contact, but I’m not sure how else to get his attention. Hesitantly, I place my hand on his back. 

Sven jerks, finally lifting his head to face me. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, except his eyes are red-ringed and unfocused. It takes him a second to register me. Of course, when he does, he immediately shuts down and tries to shut me out. 

“Go away, Morgan,” he says, but his voice is weak and strained. He's been crying, although neither of us is going to say that out loud. Looking at him, seeing this vulnerable and clearly pained side of Sven, I’m overcome with an urge to make it better; I just don’t know how. 

“Yeah, maybe if you weren’t sitting in my bathroom with a bloody knife…” 

“I can go to my room,” he offers, like my problem is the fact that he’s not in his own dorm. 

“That’s not the point! Sven, you’re--” 

“Watch it,” he cuts me off with a warning. Trained on me, his eyes are cautious; even though I’m between him and the door, he’s poised like he’s ready to get up and run. I'm not sure what he thinks I'm going to say, but he doesn't stop me for long.

“How do you plan on taking down a warlock if you can’t even sleep for a couple hours?” 

“I’m fine--” 

“Like hell you are.” 

“--I just… need a minute.” And maybe I would give him a minute if I didn’t see the patch of dark, damp fabric on his upper thigh. It only reinforces what I knew when I saw the knife. I’ve always known Sven was sick, but he keeps surprising me with how much it seems like he wants himself dead. It’s not sustainable.

“Look, Sven, whether you like it or not, you need help. You can’t… Normal people don’t--” 

“You think I don’t know that?” 

“I’m not trying to hurt you; I want to help.” 

For a long minute, Sven stares at me uncertainly. I think again about how Darian said Sven trusts me, and what bullshit that must be-- especially when he breaks eye contact and pulls his shoulder up defensively. 

But then he speaks, quietly, and I realize Darian must have been right.

“I didn’t see the warlock, but… I saw it. The sacrifice.” 

“Jesus,” I breathe. I slide from my knees to sit next to him, my back to the wall. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. He’s not looking at me; he’s staring into the distance, reliving the pain. “It was… horrific. The fear that she felt… I keep thinking, if I had been stronger, if I had been able to kill the golem… Maybe I could have saved her.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Sven. I was there; you did everything you could.” 

“Did I? The only person who’s been any help at all is you; and you didn’t even know what a golem was.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous; I couldn’t have done any of that without you.” There aren’t many people I would have stood in front of that night, but for some reason, I don’t want to tell Sven that. I’m still afraid to care too much about him, because I still think he might be a lost cause. The truth is, I don’t know if I would have followed anyone else besides Darian and maybe Syra into the showers that night. Instead of admitting that, I tell him, “You’re the brains of our team.” 

“I-- you’re…” Sven swallows hard. “You’re not as stupid as you act, you know.” 

“Neither are you,” I say good-naturedly, bumping my shoulder against his. 

Sven gives me a half-hearted smile, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t argue. 

That is, until I tell him I’m bandaging his leg. As usual, he wants nothing to do with anyone caring for him in any capacity. Sure, this time, maybe he could bandage his own cuts, but I’m hoping that the embarrassment will help keep him from doing it again.

“It’s fine, Morgan,” he insists immediately. “It’s not a big deal; I can take care of it myself.” 

“Yeah, okay,” I reply sarcastically. “Just like you took care of your broken ankle, right?” 

“That’s not fair--” 

“We can talk about ‘fair’ when you stop hurting yourself.” The words come out more harshly than I mean them to; Sven recoils slightly, dropping his gaze to the floor. Part of me wants to take it back, but I’m too stubborn. Rather than look at Sven, I tug at his pants; after a moment’s hesitation, he helps me out and pulls his pants down far enough that I can get a good look at the cuts on his leg. 

These wounds are different from the ones that mar his arms. His arms have no rhyme or reason, no consistency-- they’re covered in different types of scars, different colors, seemingly at random. But the cuts on his leg have joined a small series of wounds: thin, straight, methodical, in a row down his thigh. He’s been doing this for a while-- maybe not years, but long enough that the older cuts have become dark pink scars. 

An ache blossoms in my chest, for a reason I can’t quite place. I want to tell him that it’s going to be alright, that he doesn’t have to do this anymore… but I don’t understand why he’s doing it in the first place.

Besides, saying any of that would be a little too rosy, even for me. 

I help Sven bandage his leg (he insists again that he can do it himself, while I steadfastly ignore him), and we do our best to blot the bloodstain from his pants. While we work, he’s reserved and quiet; I start to regret the way I snapped at him. I know my exhaustion is showing at this point, because my eyes are still burning with the need to close for a while; I’m not used to pulling this many hours on so little sleep. That’s what I tell myself to feel better, anyway.

So I’m a little taken aback when Sven stops me at the door with a soft-spoken question. 

“Why are you so nice to me?” 

“What are you talking about?” As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t been especially “nice” to Sven at all. Mostly I rile him up for the fun of it. 

“I don’t think anybody’s ever tried to help me like you have. I mean, I’ve talked to the counselors and doctors, but-- they didn’t do anything. You just… keep helping me, even when I don’t deserve it.” 

“Sven…” I’m at a loss for words, and the ache in my chest is growing again. I’ve known for a short while that he’s not a bad person, that he’s not even the asshole he pretends to be-- but it still knocks me off-balance to be asked point-blank why I care about him. It takes me a minute to find the words, especially while his eyes are trained on mine. “I told you already; you’re my friend.” 

Sven shakes his head. “I know you’ve said it; I just… I’m always an asshole to you. I know I don’t deserve your friendship, and I still have no idea what I did to earn it. I guess, I’m just trying to say thanks.”

His sincerity knocks the wind out of me; it’s all I can do to meet his gaze. I knew his eyes were blue, but something about the lighting or the redness from crying makes them seem even brighter than normal-- I never realized before just how blue they are, like a clear summer sky. 

“That… probably sounded stupid, huh?” he says after a while of me staring at him. 

I flounder, but a good recovery is hard to find. “I’m just trying to figure out what makes you think I’m cool enough that you’d have to ‘earn’ my friendship.” 

A breathy laugh escapes Sven’s lips, like he’s surprised by it himself; my face feels hot, but for some reason, I can't bring myself to look away. “I don’t think ‘cool’ is the word I’d use,” he jokes. 

“Good thing no one asked you.” 

By the time we leave the bathroom, Darian is dressed for the day. He fixes us with a bright smile, like nothing ever happened. Sven hesitates for a second, halting in front of me, until I give him a nudge forward. 

“They finished a headcount while you guys were asleep, so we have free roam of the school as long as we stay inside.” 

“That’s not really free roam,” I mutter quietly, but Darian doesn’t indulge my pettiness. 

“So, are you guys ready to meet Tyler?” 

***

We are not ready. We’re tired and grumpy, we haven’t eaten in half a day, and we weren’t exactly given a clean bill of health when we left the medical wing.

I didn't remember much about Tyler, aside from his cool party trick. It isn't until I see him in the flesh that I remember him. 

He’s an easy six feet tall, with a build like a lumberjack: stocky, thick in the middle, with biceps as big as my thighs. He can’t be older than eighteen, but the weight of his presence is leavened by a stern brow and strong jaw. Almost the second we lay eyes on him, Sven and I stop dead in our tracks, an instinctive response kicking in like we’re prey animals. 

Apparently, Darian has none of the reservations or self-preservation that we do. Maybe an inability to be intimidated is a fey thing. With a bright grin, he reaches out and claps his hand into Tyler’s. 

“Tyler,” Darian greets cheerfully, “These are my friends: Morgan and Sven.” 

I wave awkwardly, and Sven only manages a curt nod. 

“Charmed,” Tyler replies, sounding anything but. “You said something about an emergency?” 

“I don’t have all the details. Morgan?” 

Sven nudges me forward, and I stumble with my mouth already trying to work out what to say. 

“Your party trick-- we could use it. Sven here, he’s sort of a warlock detective. We know someone who’s seen the warlock; we just need a police sketch artist… or a really handy witch.” 

“Alright. What’s in it for me?” 

“Uh… Highly decreased chance of being involved in a ritual sacrifice?” 

Tyler raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. “I can handle myself,” he assures us. I have to admit, he does look pretty capable. 

“Decreased chance of us being involved in a ritual sacrifice?” I try again hopefully.

Tyler looks ready to decline my generous offer when Sven steps forward. Apparently he’s overcome whatever initial anxiety he had when he laid eyes on Tyler-- and I’m instantly reminded of the moment I watched a boy with a broken ankle leap at an iron golem that was easily twice Tyler’s size. At this point, his willingness to get his ass beaten really shouldn’t surprise me. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. What I do know is that I haven’t slept in two days, and a child was murdered last night. I will take this warlock down. You can help us, or you can go down with them.”

Towering over Darian and even me, Sven isn’t exactly short; he’s eye-level with Tyler. The problem is, he’s maybe a third of Tyler’s body mass, maybe less. Still, I know firsthand the effect his determined stare can have on someone. Not for the first time, I remember the the fire in his eyes, that second night we met; from the sound of his voice alone, I know he's giving Tyler the same look. 

A minute passes. Tyler's expression is unreadable. I consider turning tail and running, but instead I stand staring at the back of Sven’s head. Sven doesn't move, until at last Tyler gives him a nod. 

“Pretty convincing,” Tyler says with an easygoing grin, engulfing one of Sven’s hands in his grip. “Alright. I'm in.”

“Smart choice. Follow me.” Without further discussion, Sven turns on his heel and marches off.

“Now?” Darian asks. 

When Sven doesn’t turn around, I shrug. “Now,” I say, and the three of us follow. 

“He’s intense,” Tyler murmurs. 

As I’m looking at Sven’s back, something pulls a wry smile out of me. “Yeah,” I agree, “He is.” 

***

We’re led straight to the quarters above the library, which is still closed due to the pending investigation. Rebekka is in the exact same spot, looking exactly the same as she did last night-- same outfit, same hairdo, same glasses perched on her nose. When she catches Sven’s eye, she swallows and lowers her book. 

“You’re quick.” 

 

“The sooner this is over, the better,” Sven says coldly. “Tyler; you’re up.” 

A beat passes before Tyler realizes that’s all the introduction he’s getting. Resigned, Rebekka takes off her reading glasses and sets them to the side. 

“Okay,” Tyler says. “I guess you’re the witness?” 

“Something like that,” Rebekka mutters. 

“When did you see it?” 

“Last night.” 

“If there’s anything you did last night that you don’t want me to see, now’s the time to tell me. Is there?” 

Rebekka’s eyes flit to Sven. I can’t think of anything they shared last night that was a secret, but in a couple of seconds, Sven inclines his head. It’s slight, barely there, but he nods to her. 

“Nothing,” she tells Tyler. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to touch you. This doesn’t usually hurt, but I’m usually doing parties and roller coasters, not…” 

“I didn’t ask for your concern.” 

I’m fighting a smile again, seeing how alike Rebekka and Sven really can be. And if I’m honest, maybe also enjoying someone else having to put up with them-- someone normal, not someone like Darian who can charm the pants off a snake. 

It gets even harder not to smile when Sven says, “Don’t be rude; he’s helping.” 

“Okay,” Rebekka mumbles, “Just… Get it over with.” 

Tyler glances back to us, sighs, and shakes his hand out. “Alright.” He presses his thumb to Rebekka’s forehead, and silence falls. 

For a second, I think nothing’s going to happen, but I should know better by now. 

Rebekka’s eyes flutter closed, but not before I see a light flickering in her eyes, like fast-forwarding through a movie. I can practically feel the tension wound through Sven, holding his breath, waiting to see whether we have to go back to square one. 

There’s no warning when it starts. 

Nothing existed that could have prepared us, either. 

The first thing I see are the candles. Black, five of them, arranged in a star in the lobby of the school entrance. There’s a pile of ash in the center, but no body, no blood. 

The sacrifice hasn’t happened yet. 

As soon as I realize what’s about to happen, I’m paralyzed by fear. I can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can only watch while my heart tries to beat out of my chest. 

The point of view lurches, and Rebekka gives a violent jerk before the vision goes dark for a moment. When it comes back, the view has changed: we’re staring at the ceiling, at the domed glass above the entrance. 

We’re watching the poor girl’s last moments. Her head tosses wildly, looking at her hands: bound with energy, rooted in the floor. There’s a figure above her, crouched, with a curved blade in one hand-- but the shadows fall over their face, obscuring the warlock’s identity. 

I watch with horror as the blade lowers, slowly but purposefully, to the sacrifice’s chest. 

A strangled scream erupts from Rebekka, as she jerks again; there’s a flash of light-- 

The scene changes. Someone’s shouting, but I can’t make it out. Everything’s blurry, dark around the edges; something like glass floats in the air-- then Rebekka starts coughing, choking. 

Drowning. 

“Focus,” Tyler says quietly, his voice strained. “Last night. Just the girl.” 

Rebekka’s chest is heaving as tears begin to streak her cheeks. Whatever we’re seeing, she’s living. The vision fades again, then pops back just as suddenly as it changed. 

It’s darker now, fading. She’s dying… Her head lolls to the side to watch the warlock, painting symbols in blood. 

“Why?” The question is weak, scratchy, barely a breath through parted lips. 

The warlock laughs. Laughs--

And then it’s gone, again. I can see Tyler’s brow furrow, his eyes shut tight, as a new scene plays. 

A child’s arm, pale, thin, dotted with a few scars; it’s held in place by a large, meaty hand. 

“Stop--” a voice is saying “--I didn’t do anything this time-- it wasn’t--” 

It’s cut off by two shrill screams-- one in the memory, and one that erupts from Rebekka. Something red, murky, drips from a vial onto flesh. It sizzles on contact, melting everything it touches. 

“Shut it down,” Sven says, “Turn it off--” 

“Sven, we haven’t--” 

“Whatever you have to do, just stop it!” 

The room goes dark. Darian’s hands are clapped over his mouth, but he doesn’t realize what we witnessed. Sven’s breath is coming almost as fast as Tyler’s, even Rebekka’s; his hands are shaking so badly I swear they’re about to come off his wrists. 

I can’t just watch, not when my chest aches deeper than ever. 

“Sven,” I whisper. He doesn’t look at me, but he flinches, so I know he heard me. Slowly, I reach over and grab the hand at his side. He stiffens instantly. I think he’ll pull away-- I know he hates being touched-- but then he surprises me, as always. His bony fingers grip my hand tight, like he’s telling me not to dare let go. 

“Rebekka,” Tyler says, “We’re almost done. Just show me what happened last night. Show us what the girl saw.” 

Something flickers. Dark hair, a curl around one ear. Eyes as black as night. A glimmer of a locket, monogrammed: EA. 

And that’s all we get before Rebekka collapses.


	9. Feelings and Nightmares

Tyler catches Rebekka, and Darian rushes to her side, brushing her hair away from her face and propping her upright. It's only a couple seconds before Tyler turns on Sven.

“You said she saw something,” he shouts. “You didn’t say she was a goddamn seer!”

“It's not like you asked,” Sven snaps. “It doesn’t matter; she didn't see anything, anyway. We're back where we started.”

“Oh, so now we're just going to pretend we didn't just see some girl's last moments?”

“Your job’s done; you don’t have to do anything.”

“Sven,” I hiss. He’s still clutching my hand, his fingers white-knuckled and squeezing so hard it hurts.

At the sound of his name, Sven wrenches his hand away and turns his back on the room. I struggle to find something helpful to say, but he’s right: we didn’t get a clear look at the warlock’s face, like we wanted. We have a set of initials, but it won’t be easy to cross-reference them…

“There’s only one thing to do,” Sven finally says. “I have to take my vows.”

He walks out and leaves the rest of us standing in Rebekka’s quarters, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about.

“We’ve got this,” Darian says. “You want to go after him-- go.”

It’s all the permission I need before I’m out the door and at Sven’s heels.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing hold of his wrist.

He whirls to face me, flushed, trembling, red-eyed and messy. Even though we’re standing in the corridors in broad daylight, it’s just the two of us. He doesn’t say anything, not to argue, not to push me away, not even to ask the unspoken question that’s playing on his lips; he just stares at me, helpless.

“I’m not letting you go alone,” I tell him. “We’re a team, right? We’re in this together, and quite frankly, you need me to keep you out of trouble, and save you from bats and golems and whatever the hell happened back there. So, I’m coming with you.”

“Morgan…”

It’s not the first time he’s said my name, not even the first time today. But for some reason, it’s the first time it makes my chest ache, my stomach drop into my feet, my fingers go numb. He’s sincere. Hurting. Afraid. All I can think about is how to help him, and I don’t even have the presence of mind to be nervous about that.

“Whatever happens,” I say, “I’m behind you. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay. Good.” The feeling finally returns to my fingers; I can breathe again. “You can tell me the plan over breakfast.”

“I didn’t say anything about--”

“You haven’t eaten since dinner. Don’t make me force-feed you.”

“Don’t push it,” Sven says, but the corners of his lips are quirked into a smile that’s barely there.

***

Breakfast happens.

Although we only catch the end of breakfast hours, the remainder of the student body is quiet and anxious. Sven looks too guarded to discuss his plans, so we eat quickly, before he drags us back out into the empty hallways.

“I need some items for the ritual,” he tells me in hushed tones. “It might be dangerous. I really don’t think you should-- I don’t want you to--”

“Sven,” I reprimand. “I told you. I’m going with you.”

His eyes pin me to the spot where I stand, searching me. “Why?”

Why? It’s one hell of a loaded question. I’m not even sure I have the answer to it myself. When did Sven become so important to me? Why does my name on his lips knock the wind out of me?

“Because that’s what friends do,” I tell him again, even though it still doesn’t feel quite right. “It’s why Darian didn’t say a word when the two of us showed up bruised and bloody on his doorstep, or why Syra brought you half the kitchen because I asked her to. I’m going to be a friend, and I’m going to follow you into whatever bat-monkey acid-cave you want me to.”

There’s a moment of silence before Sven says, “I think I could do without the acid this time.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “Same. So where to?”

Sven casts a glance around us, but the campus has been mostly deserted all morning -- likely out of fear of running into the warlock. Rumors were one thing, but now there's proof: and no one wants to be the next target.

“The vault beneath the school. There’s a gateway, but it's risky. If we take too long, if someone else uses the gateway, we could be stranded.”

I take a deep breath, because Sven did warn me that I shouldn't get involved, and I've already told him I'm not turning my back on him now. So what if now we might be trapped in whatever hell hole we're about to be dropped into? It can’t be any worse than being trapped at Habersham with a homicidal warlock on the loose.

“When you die, I'm keeping your things,” Xaphan reminds me so suddenly that I jerk. He's been quiet enough lately that I've almost forgotten to mention him on my laundry list of current problems.

So yeah, all of the above, plus a demon who's waiting to inhabit my fresh corpse.

No big deal.

I turn my attention back to Sven and his gateway. “And we're using it to go…?”

Sven’s throat bobs with a nervous swallow.

“Home,” he says quietly.

Once again, I find myself staring at Sven, trying to put the pieces together. He's anxious-- he's shaking again-- and I think of earlier, the scene playing that made him cry out, the one where a boy was begging someone to stop.

And it all comes together.

“Sven--”

“Don't,” he says sharply. “Don't look at me like you understand, don't pity me, don't say anything. Just don't. Not… not now.”

I exhale slowly, because the truth is, yeah, I’m sad for him. I'm sad that the glimpses of Sven I've been learning to like-- his shy smile; the way he looks at me after he makes a joke, like he’s making sure I approve; the compassion he tries so desperately to bury-- have been forced behind the cold mask he wears every day. But more than that, I'm angry, because I know those walls weren't built overnight, and they weren't built for show.

Angry isn't going to help Sven anymore than sad will. So I force it down, and I fight the urge to take his shaking hand.

“Okay,” I agree. “What do we need?”

“Most of it should still be in my mother’s pantry. Kylma root; vailasin blossom; aurinkaste, sunlight caught in a dewdrop… They’re not easy to come by, but she was prepared.” Even just mentioning his mother, Sven’s face falls somber. It doesn’t last long, because then he turns away. “You should pack something warm.”

***

When I get to my room, Darian’s there; I feel like my mom caught me sneaking out.

“You two have a plan, don’t you,” he asks, but it’s not a question. Darian’s my best friend, and I feel guilty for leaving him out of the loop, but adventures with Sven are always so dangerous. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to Darian.

“How’s Rebekka?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“She’s awake. Even less personable than Sven,” he remarks, “But I think she’ll be fine. Tyler’s pissed, but well, you guys didn’t exactly tell him what to expect.”

“I didn’t know,” I say, which is the truth, for the most part.

"You like him," Darian says suddenly.

"Who?"

"Sven."

"What? What's there even to like about the guy?"

Darian shrugs. "I'm just saying, a lot of your craziness lately starts to make sense if you like him. I mean sure, he's a little intense, maybe batshit crazy, and he's probably going to get himself killed by the time he's twenty. But if you like him, you like him."

"I don't--" I start to protest, but there's a flush creeping onto my cheeks. "It's not like that. We're friends." I’m not looking for anything like that, and I don't think he's interested in dating anyone, especially not me. Besides, I can only imagine his reaction if he ever finds out I'm a warlock.

"When he finds out," Xaphan says smugly.

Whatever, I think. It's not like I'm interested. Sven is rude and condescending, he doesn't trust anyone, and he's got more baggage than a passenger plane.

“Sure,” Darian says, “Friends.”

I frown. “It’s complicated.”

“Look, Morgan, I’m not saying you have to get down on one knee and propose to the guy; I’m saying, I’ve seen how you look at him. It’s sweet. I just-- you’re my best friend, but you can be kind of oblivious. I want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“First of all, rude,” I mutter. Darian’s not wrong, though. He usually knows when I start crushing on someone before I do, which only makes what he’s saying ten times worse. I can’t be developing feelings for Sven-- it’s definitely a Bad Idea™. Maybe it’s a false positive, I reason; maybe it’s just how much time I’ve been spending around Sven. We are getting pretty close. As friends. “Second of all, it’s not like that. He’s my friend; he needs my help.”

I don’t think Darian believes me.

“Be careful,” Darian says eventually. “I know he’s strong, strong enough that you think he can take down this warlock. But… for me, just be careful.”

Darian hasn’t seen Sven in a firefight. I know that if Sven goes toe to toe with a warlock, he’ll tear out their throat with sheer determination. All I have to do is get him there.

“I will. I promise.”

***

I’ve got my backpack stuffed with warm clothes and snacks, as well as an emergency first aid kit Darian forced on me. The weight of it makes my ribs ache, but I seem to be healing quickly. Sven meets me at the stairwell, his own backpack strapped over his shoulders. As usual, he doesn’t waste time on a greeting.

“Follow me,” he says and starts walking. I have to jog to catch up to him, even though he’s going slower than normal.

“Where exactly is this gateway?” I ask once I fall into step beside him.

“Remember the pit of acid?”

“Yeah,” I say. That memory isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“About a mile beneath that.”

I try to wrap my head around the idea of something even farther beneath the school. We walked for a while before we reached that landing, and it was a pretty steep slope. Looking at the building from outside, the school doesn’t seem that big; I can’t begin to imagine what must be held in the vault that Sven mentioned.

“We don’t have to back through the bats, do we?”

Sven shakes his head. “I have a different plan.”

I tilt my head to look at him. “How do you know so much about the school? I’m pretty sure I would remember learning something about a vault in the depths below us.”

“I have my sources,” Sven says. When I keep staring at him, he adds, “There are some people who remember what it was like, before the _manaaja_ fought warlocks.”

“Are you the only _manaaja_? Isn’t there someone else who can do this?”

“Why don’t we try walking in silence,” Sven suggests, only it’s not much of a suggestion. I roll my eyes, but I let him have it. Every time we talk about _manaaja_ , he gets pissy; it’s almost as sensitive a subject as warlocks.

We walk down the stairs to the ground floor. Even though the lockdown has been called off, there isn’t much of a student presence in the hallways. My mother didn’t talk about magic or warlocks or anything about Habersham at all, but I’ve attended the school long enough to know that I’m an outlier; most of the students grew up hearing horror stories.

“So what’s the plan, then?”

Sven rolls his eyes. “There’s an old door near the Dean’s office. I think it’ll bypass most of the caves and take us straight to the vault.”

“You ‘think?’”

“How many times do you think I’ve done this?” Sven asks shortly.

This is all as new to him as it is to me. He always acts like he knows what he’s doing, so I never realized he was leading blind.

“You’ve never even met a warlock, have you?”

Sven turns on me, fisting his hand in my shirt and slamming my backpack into the wall. The force of it knocks me breathless, and he’s close, with fire in his eyes and his teeth bared in a snarl, like he’s a caged wolf. I should be scared, or at least upset that he’s always lashing out at me, but all I can think is, wow, he’s something special. It’s like there’s napalm in his eyes; I’ve never had so much faith in anyone as I do when I think, Sven was born to do this.

It hits me like a freight train that Darian was right about me. I’m hopeless.

“I’ll figure it out,” Sven says harshly.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I believe him. But I’m still reeling from my sudden realization, and I find myself struggling to do anything except stare at him, mouth agape. He’s so intense that I can’t breathe.

When I don’t respond with a witty one-liner, Sven gives me a weird look and relinquishes his grip on my shirt. It isn’t until he’s turned his back on me that I manage to find my bearings. My heart’s still hammering in my chest, loudly enough that I decide to keep my thoughts to myself for a while.

How had I not noticed before? My skin burns with embarrassment as we walk. How obvious am I, exactly? If Darian could tell, Sven has to know, right? If he knows, why hasn’t he said anything?

“Maybe he’s as dim-witted as you are,” Xaphan offers.

He just might be on to something there. Sven second-guesses most of my acts of kindness; I know he’s never really had a friend before. Maybe he doesn’t see it.

I’ve finally convinced myself my secret just might be safe with Darian when Sven stops suddenly.

“We’re close,” he says, “Be quiet.”

“Right,” I hiss back, “Because crouching in a public hallway isn’t suspicious at all.”

“Shut up. How are we getting in?”

“In where?”

I stand on my toes to see over Sven’s shoulder; there’s a nondescript wooden door, unmarked, the kind of thing that might look like a janitor’s closet or a storage space if it weren’t for the “Out of Order” sign hanging on it.

“I don’t think your shortcut’s going to work,” I say to Sven.

“It’s probably a red herring. We’re going through that door. It’s the quickest, safest way to the vault.”

I look around. The hallway isn’t exactly crowded, but there are a number of people (including faculty) who would see us trying to sneak in. What we need is a distraction. If the door’s locked, I need to get to it and unlock it without anyone seeing.

“You’re going to have to make a scene,” I tell Sven. “You should be good at that.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“Because short of your fancy magic-sword, you’re a mun, and one of us needs to unlock the door.”

Sven frowns at the name-calling. “Actually, I think I might have something.” He unshoulders his pack and rifles through it for a moment. “Here. It isn’t much but…” Sven holds his hand out; he’s holding a small golden obelisk.

“Okay. What does it do?”

“Not much,” Sven admits, “But people are pretty jumpy right now. If we can get the school to go back on lockdown…”

“Then no one will be around to watch us sneak into the vault.”

Sven nods. “Exactly. You might want to find a good hiding place. I’ll try to lead everyone away from us.”

We duck into a darkened classroom; Sven leaves the door ajar just enough that he can see through the crack. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing; I only see the golden obelisk float away from his palm and down the hallway. A few minutes pass.

“I don’t think it’s working,” I whisper.

“Shut up, I’m almost done.”

A sudden loud screech cuts through the quiet. A chill runs down my spine-- not more chimonkeys…

“Alright, time to go, quick,” Sven says. He grabs me by the wrist and yanks me out the door. I stumble along behind him, craning my neck to see what he’s done.

There’s a glowing golden circle on the floor, marked with shimmering runes. Inside and around the circle, beginning to disperse, are half a dozen chimonkeys; they screech and gnash their teeth as the people in the hallway back away carefully. None of them seem to notice us, farther down the corridor.

It’s risky and stupid, but hey, that’s sort of life for us.

I gain my footing and rush to the wooden door; with my hand on the knob and a push of energy, it clicks open. Sven and I duck inside, shutting it behind us. We take a second in the darkness to catch our breath. Did that seriously work?

“You said it didn’t do much,” I hiss at Sven once I’ve taken my second. “You summoned a horde of goddamn chimonkeys!”

“They aren’t real,” Sven says, “And people will notice soon. It’s just an illusion.”

“Okay, but why chimonkeys?”

Sven doesn’t respond. I become acutely aware of the fact that his hand is still gripping my wrist.

It’s all in my head, but I can’t help but think that the chimonkeys were the reason I met Sven.

“We need a light,” Sven says. He releases my wrist and begins feeling around in the dark. Hopefully this time we don’t end up locked in a supply closet… “I think I found a switch.”

The floor drops out from beneath me; the last thing on my mind is getting caught when I start yelling. I still can’t see anything, and I’m free-falling, maybe into a pit of acid, for all I know.

My ass slams into something hard and metal, like a chute, and I keep sliding down. I scramble to find any sort of purchase, pressing my hands and shoes against the side of the chute, but the panes of metal scrape my hands raw. I don’t seem to be slowing down.

I can see a dim light at the end of the chute. This is not how I want to die…

I close my eyes and fight the panic welling up inside my chest. I need a plan. I have magic, so maybe I could make a wall at the end of the chute, or a net, something to catch me. Can I fly? Maybe I could levitate out of harm’s way. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

I’m still thinking “maybe” when the chute falls out from under me and I slam into the ground.

***

I wake with a groan of pain, clutching my abused ribs. The backpack helped break my fall, even if it didn’t do wonders for my back. Blinking the stars from my eyes, I look around the chamber I find myself in.

The ceiling stretches so far above me that I can’t see it. Suspended in mid-air, an iron chandelier casts an eerie glow on the walls of the chamber. I don’t see Sven, or the chute I came from, or an exit.

“An oubliette,” Xaphan suggests.

I’m only vaguely familiar with the term, but it stirs a very real fear in my gut.

“Sven!” I shout. “Sven! Can you hear me?”

Only silence greets me. The fear in my gut rises into my chest and burns into an outright panic. I pound on the walls with my fist, but it’s useless; they must be solid stone.

“Okay,” I say out loud. “Don’t panic, Morgan. You can do this. Think.”

A familiar, derisive scoff makes my heart leap.

“Sven,” I gasp, turning to face him. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“You can’t do this, Morgan,” Sven says. “You’re an idiot.”

It stings, but I’m not going to let him get me worked up. Instead, I tell him, “Well then why don’t you point the way to the exit.”

Sven regards me with a curious look for a second. “There’s no exit,” he says.

“What do you mean, there’s no exit? This was your plan of attack-- find one!”

“I’ve looked; there’s no way out. Did you have trouble understanding me the first time, moron?”

It hurts more that time. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Get over your problem and help me figure this out.”

“I’m not helping you do anything,” he spits, with complete and utter hatred.

I can’t help but flinch back. What’s his deal? Why is he looking at me like that? As he steps forward, I see how hollow and sunken his eyes are-- but only for a second, before he brings his hand to his hip, and a sword of light erupts from his clenched fist.

Whatever it is, it definitely isn’t Sven.

I dive to one side, careening into the ground, as the blade swings toward me. What the hell kind of vault is this?

“You might as well give up,” says Not-Sven, who is absolutely out for my blood, “You know I’m stronger than you.”

“Oh yeah?” I scramble back to my feet, willing energy to fill my veins. I can feel the electricity coursing inside me and spreading to the tips of my fingers. I haven’t tested out my strength much, since the last time I was fighting for my life. “Prove it.”

The impostor rushes toward me, sword drawn; I dodge again, this time narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. I circle around. He’s fast; I can’t take my eyes off him. He shoots forward at me again, and again. I barely have time to get out of the way.

I need to get off the defensive.

I get a crazy idea: one that Darian definitely wouldn’t approve of. I focus as much energy into my hands as I can, remembering the time in the bathroom, remembering fighting for my life, and Sven’s.

He thrusts the sword toward me.

This time, I don’t avoid it: I wait for it to come into my reach and grip it as hard as I can.

It’s scalding me, like boiling water, but it’s positioned right above my chest so that I’m dead if I let go. I know that I have to strike.

I don’t have time to hesitate, even if it looks like Sven. I channel all my focus through my hands and into the sword. It crackles and pulses, creaks from the excess energy, but I just keep pushing, until the back end of the sword explodes.

It shoots through the impostor’s shoulder. He stumbles back, and slowly disintegrates. Beyond where he stood, the walls fall away.

I collapse into the ground.

I jolt awake, gasping for air and swinging blindly. It takes me a minute to realize the chamber is different now-- brighter, cleaner. My palms still sting, and I can see raised welts from holding the blade, but I can’t put together a timeline. Where exactly am I?

I cast about the chamber, and my eyes rest on Sven-- Sven! I rush to his side, but he’s lying unconscious, his brow furrowed with pain. He makes soft noises, little cries, as I watch; his fingers twitch, like he’s moving in his sleep.

“Sven, come on,” I say, lightly slapping his cheek. (It hurts me more than it does him.) “Come on, wake up.”

He doesn’t respond.

Is this what I was doing moments ago? Is it some kind of dream, some kind of trance? It felt real, and I have the wounds on my hands to prove it. If Sven dies in there, does he die in real life?

If he dies, there’s no way I’m getting out of here alive.

Panicked, I look for anything real I can fight: a monster, a person, anything. When I look back to Sven, though, I see something. There’s a darkness settled over him, like a shadow of a blanket. Is that what’s causing this?

I swipe at it, but it’s like trying to fight fog. I don’t think I’m having any effect on it. How do you fight a shadow?

Then my eyes light on the chandelier-- it’s suspended in mid-air, but maybe I can knock it down somehow. I don’t know how to build a fire, or how to make light, but I do know how to make a mess.

Despite the burning in my palms, I force energy into my hands; my fingers tingle expectantly, hot and cold, as I take aim. I’ve never tried this before…

I clench my eyes shut and will the sparks to fly. It feels like a knife cutting through my hands. A loud crackling rings through the chamber as violet sparks ricochet off the walls, but it dissipates before it manages to collide with the chandelier. Okay, I tell myself, good proof of concept. Now it’s time to actually do it.

I aim my hands again, feeling the energy nipping at my hands like saltwater in a cut; it hurts, but I have to wake Sven up. I don’t know the school like he does. I force another bolt from my hands, and this time it knocks into one of the far arms of the chandelier. The hanging swings wide as the sparks bounce from wall to wall, but it doesn’t seem to do Sven any good. A cut has opened on the bridge of his nose, and his breathing is labored and shallow. I need to get the fire down here with us, fast.

Well, I think, third time’s the charm. And it has to be, because I don’t know how many more times I can do this. My hands are starting to bleed from the abuse, and forcing the energy into them this time is excruciating; it’s like the electricity tears straight through my palms. I sway, light-headed, as I take focus on the chandelier again.

You can do this, Morgan. You have to do this.

I take a deep breath.

When I loose the bolt, the pain is blinding; it nearly sends me to my knees. I force myself to watch as it sails straight into the chandelier; it sways uncertainly for a second, then crashes to the ground.

“Yes,” I breathe. As quickly as my shaky legs will carry me, I grab a candlestick, ignoring the screaming pain in my hands. The foggy darkness hovering around Sven shrinks back, almost seeming to hiss at my approach; I wave the flame over it, and it dissipates. Sven’s furrowed brow begins to relax-- only for a second-- and then he shoots upright, screaming hoarsely.

“Get away,” he shouts, eyes wide but unseeing.

“Hey,” I whisper; the candle falls from my hands as I reach to comfort Sven. “Hey, it’s over now. It was just a nightmare.”

He’s gasping for air, gulping it down like he’s dying. He doesn’t say anything else, just fists my shirt and pulls me close to rest his head against my chest. Gently, I take his shaking body into my arms. Whatever he saw, it was worse than my nightmare.

“What was that?” he finally breathes.

“I don’t know, but let’s not stick around for a second meeting.” Sven extracts himself from my arms, leaving me feeling cold but grateful. “Where exactly is this vault?”

“Close, with any amount of luck.”

I snort. “Yeah, we seem to be running short on that.”


End file.
